


A Bastard's Odyssey

by Blaiser



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Anal Sex, Angst, Biting, Blood, Bottom Ramsay Bolton, Corpse Desecration, Dark, Euron is his own warning, F/M, Finger Sucking, Force Choking, Force-Feeding, M/M, Mindfuck, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Oral Fixation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Episode: s06e09 Battle of the Bastards, Ramsay Hurt so Pretty, Ramsay is his own warning, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadism, Sexual Violence, Sorry Not Sorry, Spoilers, Torture, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-08-09 08:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 54,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7795345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blaiser/pseuds/Blaiser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate ending for episode S06E09.<br/>The battle may be lost but Ramsay Bolton is no way near defeated. Retreating within castle walls, he prevents the Stark army from overrunning Winterfell which then brings about a siege instead. Although it may appear as if Ramsay holds all the advantages in order to sit it out, his arrogance and overall mannerism ultimately brings an end to his initial strategy and forces him to make new plans to ensure his survival. What follows is not for the faint-hearted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Horseshit

As the gates of Winterfell was closed and barred, Ramsay Bolton could taste the bile flavoured acid rising in his throat. With his face twisted in an angry grimace he made his way through the cluster of Bolton and Karstark men, rushing to strengthen the planks that served as the only barrier between them and what remained of the Stark army. The gate shuddered with the full force of enemy rams, making wood splinter and threatening an imminent breach of the barricade. The thundering blows ceased as large batches of arrows rained down from the castle walls, killing a handful of the charging soldiers and causing the rest to retreat to a safe distance beyond reach of the Bolton archers and their longbows.

The drawbridge was raised to the sound of creaking wood and clattering chains as the windlass hauled it into a vertical position. Over the deafening noise, Jon Snow could be heard shouting from the other side. “ **Lord Bolton! Be a man! Come out and fight me!!!** ”, his stentorian voice contained equal amounts of rage and frustration, “ **you will not escape our justice! I swear it by the gods!** ”. There was a few seconds pause, then “ **Don´t run and hide, coward!** ”, someone bellowed harshly. “ **Yer little cunt!** ” A third voice had joined in the mockery.

Ramsay bit down on his lower lip until the bitterness in his mouth was replaced by a metallic taste of blood. “My Lord! The gates are secured.” The messenger was bloodied and heaving for air. “Fine!”, Ramsay sneered back. “you're in charge. Make a head count and report back to me at once.” He turned on his heel giving the now sealed entrance one last glare, and rushed towards his private chambers. Getting far away from the unconceivable disaster that had just now occurred could not happen fast enough, so he shoved and elbowed his way through the surrounding crowd, clearing a path for his escape while cussing at the dimwitted men that were in his way.

As he neared the tower containing his refuge, a soldier sitting up against the wall with intestines hanging out of his gut, reached out a shaking hand and grabbed Ramsay's leg as he passed him by. “Vile creature!”, he spat, and kicked the man off him with a boot to his side. Whimpering, the soldier slumped backwards against the wall in a pile of hay and horseshit; the filth clinging to his open wound like dung to a hog.

Inside the tower, Ramsay hastily ascended the stairs taking two steps at a time. On reaching his bedchamber he slammed the door behind him and slid down its coarse surface onto his rear-end, staring at nothing but the empty air. Then the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North shut his eyes, balled up his fists and hit the wood behind him until there was no feeling left in either hand.


	2. Reflection

“My Lord?” The man’s voice sounded distant. Ramsay lifted his eyes from the long table where he had spent the past hours staring sullenly into the wood grain and drinking wine in big gulps.

The victory had been as sure as teats on a bitch, yet it had evaded him still in the last moment on the battlefield when the knights of the Vale appeared over the ridge in what seemed like never ending rows of heavily armed riders. With their ambush House Arryn had brought an end to his vision of annihilating the last true resistance against his claim in the North. The falcon aligning with the wolf. It was not a plight he had even considered could come to pass. Lord Baelish had turned out to be a treacherous but quite clever cunt, and Ramsay would have to think hard of something _very_ special to award him with once he had put an end to the remaining opposition. The Stark alliance had taken most of his army, the men either captured or killed which meant the same to him; no longer adding to their strength in numbers the soldiers had surpassed their usefulness.

Although it was early evening the autumn sun had already begun to set. The cloudy sky seemed gloomy and more sinister than usual, emitting some obscure, dark prophecy that Ramsay could not interpret. Had everything gone as it was supposed to he would be flaying the bastard by now. Peeling of long slices of skin and exposing the tissue underneath, making him squeal and writhe on the cross until the brave and honourable Lord Commander Snow would finally give in and beg for the mercy of death. With a few rare exceptions they all did sooner or later, but he never granted them any mercy anyhow. No matter the amount of entertainment they provided, the climax of his pleasure was not obtained until the victims started to loose their minds from desperation and anguish. When they were willing to bite off their own hands to get free from their restraints and away from the blade only then would he bring out saltwater or the cat o’nine. On special occasions there were rats involved.

Sansa would have been forced to watch, of course, and how he would drag it out even longer than usual just to see her suffer. He would savor the tormented look on her face like a fine wine filled with sweet revenge as he fed the skin of her last living brother to his starving bitches. Ramsay emptied the goblet in one mouth full, his knuckles turning white as his fingers tightened around the stem.  _Sansa. Sansa, that fucking whore_. She had out-manoeuvred him, played him for a fool. The realization of the extent of his humiliation was slowly dawning on him, poking its searing, hot skewers into his vanity and impaling it like a roasted piece of pork. He would be made a subject of ridicule now, the laughing stock of the North. Songs and tales would be written about the clash between Stark and Bolton, declaring him a beaten down coward forced to flee the battlefield, chased behind his own gates by a woman and a dirty halfbreed. 

 _My bastard_. The voice of his father whispered in his ear, mocking him from beyond the grave.  _You should have stayed inside the walls and waited them out. Now everything is lost because of your foolishness_. A muscle in the corner of Ramsay’s eye started to twitch. _And_   _I...I should have drowned you when you were nothing more than a wailing mutt on your mother’s tit_. The cold wind that blew through the hall made every hair on his body stand up and caused a shiver down his spine. _The North was watching and it remembers all…_

“My Lord?” It was that voice again. “ **What is it?!** ”, he snapped. “The head count, Sire...a thousand and fifty-two men are left within the walls and an estimated six-hundred or so captured by the enemy”. The knight tried to hide his nervousness but Ramsay could still detect that slight, delicious tremor in his voice. Like a shark could sniff out blood in water so had Ramsay a nose for anxiety in the people surrounding him. He would always pick up on the scent no matter how discreet or in what form it was presented. Usually, he would have pounced on an opportunity like it to get inside the man’s head and roam about until he could find something to shatter. At this moment, however, no game regardless of its level of ease appealed to him. It made him furious to realize that the Starks, along with stealing his victory, had sucked the joy out of his pastime as well.

“Was there anything else, Sire?” Anxious to take his leave the knight shifted on his feet. Ramsay signalled for him to get out, and the man all but ran from the dining hall leaving behind the last living member of House Bolton lingering on the day’s past events.

 


	3. Aftermath

Fires were lit several places on the battlefield, illuminating an otherwise darkened sky. Northern winds had picked up, carrying with them a suffocating smell of roasted human flesh. It settled over Winterfell like a thick coat of stink making eyes water and throats burn.

The enemy had spent the past hours finishing off the fatally wounded Bolton and Karstark men, and now they were burning the bodies along with their own fallen soldiers. The moans and pleas of the abandoned men had reminded Ramsay of his failure, and he felt relieved when they were silenced for good. Some had screamed for their mothers, others for their gods when enemy steel pierced their armor and found their hearts, sending them into the eternal pit that was death's dark abyss. After the merciful purge, all that remained were the loud crackles of angry flames drowning out all other sounds of the world. The sickening sweet stench of men's melting fat made Ramsay gag, so he covered his nose and mouth with a sleeve trying to minimize the intake of the foul air surrounding him on the rampart.

The giant had been close to the gates when it had fallen, face first into the ground. Like a colossal, grotesque porcupine it lay displayed with hundreds of arrows and spears piercing its corpse. Around sixty wildlings and the bastard himself had gathered around the fallen thing in a circle holding hands, some crying even. Ramsay snorted as they broke out in a foreign tongued song, apparently honouring the abomination with the hideous noises escaping their throats. When the singing finally ceased they lit the giant on fire, and the smoke covered Winterfell in a heavy, stinking fog once again. From his place on the wall, Ramsay watched with a vindictive scowl as Jon Snow rode across the now scorched field, dropping out of sight beyond the northern tree line.

***

Having made camp at the edge of the woods a few miles north of the castle, the enemy was settling in for the night. Ramsay could make out their small fires in the distance and his thoughts shifted again to Sansa. The triumphant smirk she had given him when the knights of the Vale had made their surprise attack from the flank haunted him still. She had turned the game around on him gaining the upper hand, and he could tell even from afar she knew, that he knew defeat was imminent. He had underestimated her grossly, thinking she was making empty threats and letting herself get carried away on the spur of the moment. At the parley he had been amused by her anger, knowing he would have her back in his bed by nightfall and with a whole new list of ideas to try out on her.

 _What are they planning?_ He gritted his teeth feeling a headache coming on. _Will they return to Castle Black? Or try out for the Dreadfort?_ It seemed like the two most obvious tactics the Starks would choose under their current circumstances. “Call on the Maester. Tell him to send a Raven to the Dreadfort; the men must get ready for a siege”. Ramsay pondered for a second, then added, “if they should fail to defend the castle, my orders are to burn it to the ground.” “At once, my Lord.” The soldier next to him left in a hurry.  _They wouldn´t survive the winter out there...it would be madness._

Stannis had tried such tactics and failed. The Baratheon army had been so easily cut down, weakened as they were after months of starving and freezing in the waste lands. "Like slaughtering pigs in a pen", Roose had said, and he had indeed been right. The old stag himself was found frozen and beheaded in the woods, causing Ramsay to feel quite saddened by his demise. He would have made the ultimate trophy; a king skinned alive and hung from the walls of the Dreadfort as a morbid banner reminding the people of the North who was their new supreme sovereign. The victory had been a gift handed to his House by an arrogant, foolish man too busy believing in witchcraft to actually study his opponent, and although he had initially thought it would be as easy getting rid of the Starks as it had the southern cunt, Ramsay now suspected differently. Jon Snow was a northerner after all; he would most likely refrain from making the same fatal mistake the Son of Fire had made in his inexperience with winter warfare, leading an army of exhausted men into the barren, unforgiving plains of the North.

Without uttering a word to his men Ramsay left the wall. The anger still untamed within him had not subsided in the least since morning when he had been driven off the battlefield. He knew he had to get some release to clear his mind, so he went looking around for someone to inflict pain on. In the kitchens he spotted a redheaded girl cleaning a stack of plates from the evening meal. The copper hair, long and flowing, reminded him again of Sansa Stark and without further need for justification of his action other than the color of her locks and the rage it brought forth in him, he grabbed the girl hard by the upper arm, drilling his fingers into the soft flesh there. Startled, she looked up at him, dropping the plate she had been drying of. She was young and not altogether hideous which was good enough. “Come with me!” he sneered and dragged the girl towards his chambers.

Inside he threw her on the bed amongst the furs. Climbing on top of her shaking frame he ripped the dress open, making her small bosom spring from the shredded cloth. The girl was sobbing hysterically. “M'lord! M'lord! Please!” He slapped her face and bit her neck and chest. She squealed and convulsed in return, bucking like a wild animal caught in a trap. Releasing himself from his breeches he thrust violently into her, savouring the pain stricken expression on her face as he scratched, bit and fucked her without mercy or concern.

At dawn he let the girl go. A bloodied mess she was, face swollen, bruises and welts from his fingernails and teeth all over her body. She was limping, covering herself with rags from the dress. There was a little blood trickling down her legs. She had been so damned dry and tight that Ramsay had almost hurt himself fucking her. He smiled watching her go and waited until her hand reached for the door before he spoke.” I expect to see you again tonight after dinner. Be clean and undressed when I return”. The girl did not turn around but nodded her head slightly.” Yes, m'lord”. She closed the door silently behind her, and he heard the tortured sob she had been saving for when she was alone and out of earshot escape her lips prematurely in the hallway outside. Ramsay folded his hands behind his head, stretched his legs and smiled at the ceiling. 


	4. Parley

The distant sound of a horn announced someone was nearing the gates, and only moments later Ramsay received word that a party of Stark men had arrived. Taking his sweet time he dressed himself and slung a bow over his shoulder. No doubt the wolves were there to offer up some kind of ultimatum although they held no leverage over him. Perhaps they thought, as the credulous simpletons they were, he would trade himself in return for his captured men. If that indeed was the proposal Jon Snow was about to make him, he was even dumber than he looked and evidently not aware of whom he was dealing with. The notion of the bastard's vast stupidity made Ramsay snicker to himself as he adjusted his dublet with a final tug, then headed for the door, leaving his chambers. Outside, two guards snapped to attention and followed after him down the stairwell and into the courtyard.

In the morning sun it seemed almost empty. A few clusters of men had gathered around small fires, stealing occasional glances at their Lord and only saluting him when their eyes met his. Ramsay climbed the stairs alongside his remaining knights, taking in the sight of Winterfell's ravaged landscape that gradually unfolded before him as he ascended. On top of the wall the breeze was cool and fresh. He stopped for a moment, enjoying the wind on his face before forcing on a wide smile and walking up to the rampart.

Looking down he saw Jon Snow glaring back at him, his dark eyes were filled with rage and promise of a reckoning. By his side were the two men Ramsay had threatened the day before with having their eyes and balls fed to his hounds. Sansa was nowhere to be seen and he cherished her absence; he was not ready to face her again so soon as the wound he had suffered by her ploy was still too fresh. ”So bastard, have you burned your little brother yet?”, he beamed, ” Rickon really was quite the disappointment...easiest kill I´ve ever made”. He paused to relish in Snow’s anger; the expression on the man’s face was growing darker still. Sure enough, the taunting was getting under his skin challenging him to act carelessly. Even though he had barely begun demonstrating his wide and varied arsenal of insults, Ramsay could already sense the struggle going on within Jon between his vengeful heart and his better judgement; one the latter was about to loose. 

From a very young age Ramsay had perfected the discipline of toying with people, poking holes in their minds armor until a weakness sprang forth. It truly was thrilling to drive daggers through men’s flesh, but even more so to get inside their heads and tear them apart from within. No two men were the same and therein lay the challenge, although in this particular case the weakness was painfully obvious and banal. All people had certain common factors when it came to being provoked and it shouldn´t take much effort to rile up the Lord Commander given that he had just shot an arrow through his brother's back. “Maybe if he´d run from side to side a little it would have been more _fun_...”, Ramsay tilted his head and smirked. It was almost too easy.

Silence filled the air. Jon was staring Ramsay down as forces inside him were stabbing daggers into his mind, telling him to storm the castle and cut off the murderer’s head. He wanted to lose his temper, to scream back obscenities at the monster smiling down at him; that smug, little beast whom not only had taken his home and family away from him, but also was the one responsible for the deaths of thousands of Stark men, allies and civilians. Fortunately, Jon had a good deal of experience remaining composed under the most challenging of circumstances, so he held his tongue and stayed collected, reasoning with himself that any rashly made decision brought on by Ramsay’s vile taunts would only add to his amusement and ultimately his gain. Jon was not about to give him that satisfaction.

When he finally spoke his voice was calm and balanced. “Rest assured, Lord Bolton...my sister and I will have justice for our brother as the North will have their justice for the many lives you have taken. You come down from that wall and the two of us will settle this like men.” Ramsay’s face split into a grin. “Oh, I don´t think so! That _would_ be pretty silly of me, would it not? With me having the upper hand and all”, he chuckled, shaking his head, “can´t wait to hear what other great propositions you´ve thought of, bastard, 'cause that one was not very impressive...has the cold already numbed your brain, I wonder?” A heavy sigh escaped Jon's lips “What is the _upper hand_ in all this, Lord Bolton? Please, do enlighten me” The voice was cold and flat. _Damn him_. It made Ramsay’s expression freeze up in wonderment for just a second before returning to his usual appearance, part smug, part manic.

”Well, if you can´t figure that one out by yourself there is no fun at all in playing this game with you. Tell me...is it Eddard Stark or your whore mother who is to blame for your simplicity? Perhaps Lord Starks wit did improve when the Lannister’s cut off his head!” Next to him some of his knights started chuckling. Snow sat motionless on his steed. Ramsay´s eyes were fixed on his, irking him to act carelessly. _Come on. Come on…bite, and see what happens, you dumb cunt_! As much as his fingers itched to nock an arrow and send it flying over the wall, Ramsay knew attacking the enemy during a parley would turn even some of his own men against him; it was after all considered an outrageous breech of war etiquette to dishonor the white flag, and he'd better not give in to the temptation even though he longed for nothing more than to see the Lord Commander with a feathered stick piercing his annoyingly pretty face.

Snow seemed to remain resolute despite all that he had thrown at him, so instead Ramsay hawked up a large glop of phlegm, spat it over the wall and down on the Stark party below. The guck hit the unsuspecting wildling on top of his head, and he whipped his face towards Ramsay, giving him a resentful scowl when the realization of what had just hit him finally dawned. Ramsay snickered as the redhead wiped away the saliva, cursing under his breath. He might have missed his intended target but at least he had gotten one of them good.

”Very well then, a siege it is. If you surrender now, no harm will come to your men. They may return to the Dreadfort and I will grant you, Lord Bolton, a quick and painless death”. Ramsay rolled his eyes.” You really do amuse me, Jon Snow. Look around you! You don´t have the men, shelter and certainly not the provisions for a siege.” The bastard shifted in his saddle but remained silent. “I, on the other hand have all such commodities. I have grain to last more than two years and a nice comfortable castle filled with wine and cunny. So if you are in for the long wait...please, _oh please_...be my guest! Stay and freeze your balls off.”

The actual grain status was only half that or less but it mattered none. The wolves would be either dead or gone by the time a shortage of food could pose a problem. “Winter is coming, remember? When my wife feels the cold gnaw at her bones, tell her that my warm bed and loving arms awaits her.” The two men locked eyes and Ramsay silently mouthed _now fuck off_. Before steering his horse around, the bastard sent him one last glare. The party rode across the battlefield towards their camp. When they were gone from sight, Ramsay’s smile faded.


	5. Bored

Two months had gone by since the dreadful battle and the cold had begun to set in. Ramsay had rationed the firewood in order to preserve it for the coming winter. It was the only commodity they were in danger of exhausting other than women. With the Starks lurking at the edge of the woods a new supply of timber was out of the question, so the only fires allowed to burn were in his private chambers and the two dining halls: Ramsay's own and where the men ate.

In their sleeping quarters where there was no warmth the men bundled up instead. Some made torches out of the leftover animal fat from the livestock which was all gone now. A dozen soldiers had succumbed to sickness in the past month, Maester Wolkan informed him. The old fart even asked permission to light a fire in the sickbay so that the wounded had a better chance of survival, but Ramsay declined the request. There was no reason to waste valuable wood - or provisions for that matter - on the sickly as long as the disease was not spreading. Besides, those who had died had contracted their wounds from the battle and not from a lack of heating. It wasn´t really a reasonable argument, Ramsay knew, but a few fatalities were a small price to pay for them not risking running out of precious wood. The Maester had not insisted either and he hurried out of the dining hall after dismissing himself.

The enemy seemed to be better equipped and faring than he had expected. Every once in a while, the wind would carry laughter and songs from the Stark camp through his window. The joyous sounds reminded Ramsay of all the pleasures he was missing out on himself being locked up in that retched castle, and made his stomach feel like it had been filled to the brim with rage and every new note or laugh was threatening to burst it wide open. To clear his mind of the injustice being done to him, he would then call for the kitchen maid and abuse her instead; her screams sometimes loud enough to drown out the mocking laughters, even the ones that were only in his head.

There had been no communication between the two camps since the parley, and it made Ramsay wonder if the bastard, Jon Snow, really was planning to stay during the winter months. It weighed heavily on his mind, but mostly because there was nothing else to worry about in the confinement he was in. The boredom was becoming unbearable, so he decided to send out scouts. Two small parties with five men each were lowered from the southern wall at night time; their Lord's ever watchful eyes following them as they disappeared into the darkness. Their orders were to creep up near the Stark camp and lay in wait until one of their men would wander off far enough for them to grab him. If they could get their hands on an enemy soldier or knight and torture him for information, maybe they would get something useful to bring back to Winterfell...or maybe not. Probably not. At least something was happening that could keep Ramsay’s boredom a little at bay. But the scouts never returned, and so the monotony of everyday life within the walls of Winterfell continued on.

Most nights he spent sitting in the dining hall by his lonesome staring into the hearth. The flames mesmerized him, and sent his mind off to a place where he could hunt with the girls again. In the midst of this awful tedium Ramsay longed for the hunts more than anything else. The girls were still there in the kennels, but seeing them in their cages did not bring back fond memories of running through the woods with them, stalking and killing prey. Their inadequate, unsanitary confinement just reminded Ramsay of how Winterfell every day seemed more like a gloomy dungeon and less like the ostentatious symbol of his victory it had been before the battle, and as a consequence he avoided going to the kennels at all.

Some days he would barely get out of bed except to eat dinner or to fuck the wench. The redheaded girl posed no challenge; every night she lay next to him shaking and timid, clutching her stomach or facing the wall. She never fought him which made fucking her unsatisfying - boring even, and Ramsay could feel his incentive to hurt her declining every day as a result. Without the resistance, the servant girl was just another broken toy hardly worth the effort of pulling down his breeches, and at this point he only kept her around because there was nothing better to do to pass the time.

Unlike the tedious wench, Theon Greyjoy had been a rare treat. His dignity was a delight to see diminished a little at a time and at the same pace Ramsay removed his noble fingers and toes. The creature Reek had been a masterpiece; from an arrogant Prince of the Ironborn to a submissive and loyal pet, betraying his own people at the mere word of his Master. Ramsay had thought Theon Greyjoy had been so deeply buried underneath the layers of fear and humiliation he would have never resurfaced, but as it turned out he was wrong. Reek had been useful, Theon had not. It was Reek who helped him take Moat Cailin, winning his father's favor at long last, but it was Theon who jumped the wall with Sansa Stark that day and killed Myranda in the process.

Now his Reek was gone for good and Ramsay truly missed him. The siege would have been slightly more bearable if his pet had been there to entertain him. He had heard the rumours about the Greyjoy siblings joining the ranks of the Dragon Queen in the East, after escaping the Iron Islands within an inch of their lives, usurped by their own uncle, The Crow´s eye, who now held the title of King of Salt and Rock. Although it vexed him that he would never get to enjoy the fruits of his creation again, Ramsay in a strange sense felt glad that his pet was still breathing, for sometimes, being alive was worse than being dead, and Theon deserved nothing less than everlasting suffering for having betrayed him. His maimed body and mind would forever remind the Prince of their time spent together, no matter how many victories of the Targaryen bitch's he would take part in from here on forward. Ramsay had made sure that Theon would never feel whole again. 

Removing Theon’s manhood had been the most satisfying thing he had done to any of his victims in a long while. Ramsay had been envious of Greyjoy, not only of the size of his cock or of his true-born status, but most and foremost by Theon´s apparent attractiveness to women. It was not that Ramsay was ugly, but he was short of stature and there was something about his face, his large grey eyes with an ever-present devious glint in them that made most women keep their distance or even flat out divert him. Even though Ramsay was not overly interested in marrying a woman, except if she was good-looking and if he was free to do with her as he pleased (neither requirement was rarely met with the highborn ladies that visited the Dreadfort) he still found himself longing for the things that were off limits to him and that included pig-faced girls with noble heritages.

What really vexed him was the way the women inspected him and deemed him unworthy, turning their backs on him like he was nothing more than a servant boy they could ignore. Their regard of his station reminded him that he was only a Snow and would most likely remain a such until his dying day, a lingering nobody without land, title or say; just another peasant to work to death or another pawn for Roose to make his move with. Every time one of the nobles waved him of or ignored his presence, it made his blood boil with rage and his accumulated hatred towards them, his father and the undeniable truth that he was left to rot outside the circle of power they were all born into. They didn´t deserve to be in such positions but he did. After years spent restrained in the shadows, Ramsay wanted more than anything else to be in the center of it all, but not only as a part of the inner circle. No, he wanted it all to himself.  

Greyjoy had everything Ramsay had not, so he found it fitting to strip away the parts of him that he was envious of. Even after such a long time the memory still made him smile. Theon Turncloak returning home to his cursed Islands as a neutered dog. Ramsay tried to visualize the look that must have been on the Kraken King´s face as he opened the chest containing his last living son´s manhood, a tentacle the only male heir surely could not regrow. He remembered the time Theon's sister, Yara, had crept into the Dreadfort in the dead of night to steel away his Reek, and how close he had been to trapping her in the kennels; the disappointment he had felt as she got away. Oh, how he would have made the most wonderful spectacle out of her for Reek to see. Making him watch as he took his sister by force like he had taken Sansa Stark on their wedding night and the many nights that followed it. Then, after he was done with her, he would have made Reek kill her. It truly would have been spectacular.

His thoughts were interrupted by the dragging of feet across the floorboards. Shifting his gaze, he saw the servant girl standing naked in the window frame. She had gotten up without him noticing and seemed to be in a kind of hypnotic state, staring straight ahead without seeing. He did not get a chance to utter a word before she leaned forward and was gone. Ramsay strolled over to the window and glanced over the sill. The girl's broken body lay splayed out on the frozen ground below the tower, blood forming a little pool of red surrounding her head like a halo. Ramsay rolled his eyes and went back to bed.

There were none other within the walls worth fucking; the remaining women were all too old for his taste or too ugly, and he missed someone to violate and to find some release from the insufferable sense of humiliation still gnawing away at him months after the defeat. With each passing day, Ramsay grew increasingly frustrated so he started drinking heavily to keep the boredom and embarrassment he suffered a little at bay, waking each morning with a skull shattering headache as a result. Fortunately, the gods decided to smile upon him. When a handful of Karstark men began complaining openly about the lack of heating and quality of provisions they were given, it gave Ramsay an excuse to flay a few of them as a warning to the other men. He knew the human body as well as any Maester and understood how to inflict the most pain without actually killing a man before intending to do so. Not only was torture amusing to him, it was interesting as well, as Ramsay was always curious about the amount of pain a human being could endure before their hearts simply gave in and surrendered to death. To his great satisfaction, with the insubordinate Karstark men that amount turned out to be a lot.


	6. Wolves at the Door

A week had passed since the servant girl had thrown herself from the window, when their largest grain deposit caught on fire in the middle of night. Ramsay woke to the sound of men shouting and flames lighting up his bedchamber. He ran down the stairwell to the courtyard where people had already formed a human chain, passing buckets of water from the well and towards the tower housing the grain storage. The towering inferno seemed to absorb the water they threw at it as effortlessly it did their precious reserves. Ramsay felt the radiating heat scorch his face so he stepped back a few paces, watching in awe as the orange flames lapped away at the building, devouring it.

As he stood idly by while men around him fought desperately to put out the fire, a horrible thought dawned on him. _If the grain is destroyed Winterfell will be lost...that is the main reserve burning_. A nasty image formed in his head. Sansa Stark bent over his headless body as he was put to the sword. She was picking up his severed head, smacking him across the face and smiling wide. The last thing he saw before darkness took him was her smirk and green eyes that burned into his like wildfire. A chill ran down his spine at the thought of the scenario coming to life, and Ramsay promised himself then and there that he would end his own life before letting the Starks get the pleasure of doing so. “ **More water!** ”, he roared, “ **put out the fire! Save the grain!** ”. More men rushed to join the bucket brigade “ **or I will flay the hide of every last one of you bastards!!!** ”.

***

It was dawn before the fire had been put out. Ramsay shuffled around aimlessly in the smouldering pile of what once had been large barrels of wheat, barley, dried fruit and wine intended for their constraint during the upcoming winter months. Now it was all reduced to ash and a stinking pile of undefinable mush. Eight men had died as Ramsay’s orders had compelled them into the tower to fight the fire from inside. Twenty-one were severely burned and at the end of the day another five men had succumbed to their burn wounds. Ramsay was at best indifferent to the news for he did not concern himself with the lives of petty men. Whisperings among the soldiers began as his absence from the burials did not go unnoticed.

The grain supply status was devastating. Less than one fifth of the provisions were left, barely enough to get them through the coming three months even if they rationed it to a bare minimum. The messenger, some poor twat who had been unfortunate enough to be the one to deliver the status, shat himself when Ramsay put a knife through his throat out of pure rage. He wiped the man´s blood off on his sleeve and called on the guards, ordering them to get rid of the corpse. “He refused my commands”, he told them. The soldiers nodded, exchanged a discrete glance and carried the body away.

There was no disclosure as to how the deposit had caught on fire. Most likely it was sabotage conducted by some of his own soldiers desperate to end the siege. Ramsay cursed his own stupidity, he should have placed guards at the deposits to begin with. In dire need of someone to blame for the catastrophic incident he executed four random men, accusing them of being the saboteurs. He did not bother to produce any evidence concerning the alleged guilt; his word as a Lord was enough and no one dared to question him, at least not to his face.

The following day Jon Snow appeared at the gates once again. This time Sansa was with him, a malignant smile curving her lips as Ramsay stuck his head over the rampart and spotted them. They both looked healthy and complacent like they were thriving in the cold, and Ramsay felt his stomach contract, his heart sink at the sight of them mounted stoically on their steeds. It was a predicament quite unfamiliar to him; with the fire he had lost his only leverage, and most likely the Starks either knew that or at least suspected it.

He would of course, never let his anxiety or insecurities show in front of them; for such indiscretions he was too experienced, and being a part of the Bolton family also made it natural for him to hide any sign of weakness from others. Growing up at the Dreadfort, Ramsay had learned the hard way how vulnerability could claim your life or dignity (or both). It was an eat or be eaten kind of household; a grey-eyed snake pit where it was every snake for himself. The threat of being devoured by someone close to you was always looming there, even if that someone was your own father. There were not enough leeches in Westeros to suck out the bad blood of Roose Bolton or Ramsay himself for that matter. He was after all his father’s son, only more devious and much more vicious.

“Hello Wife. Hello Bastard” Ramsay had forced a cheeriness into his voice and his eyes were sparkling a mixture of glee and madness. “Have you come to kneel down before me?”. Sansa and Jon exchanged a look of slight amusement. “Not really. We saw the bonfire last night – very pretty”, Jon professed, “How much do you have left? It can´t be a whole lot”. The frosty tone of his raspy voice made Ramsay swallow hard. He could feel the scrutinizing stares of his own men burning holes in the back of his skull, asking the very same question only not daring to do so out loud. “Enough to wait you out, bastard.”

Jon snorted and shook his head. Sansa had a triumphant smirk plastered on her face. She sucked her teeth. “Tsk, tsk, Lord Bolton. We both know you are lying.” Her smile widened as if she had put out a snare and Ramsay, her coveted prey, was about to stick his foot right into it. “Our offer still stands: surrender now and your men shall receive free passage home _or_ they can join our ranks. You will receive the gift of a quick death”. Jon Snow, ever the honourable twat, leaned forward in his saddle, “I give you my word”.

“Never”, Ramsay sneered. The Starks were putting on a show of arrogance which irritated him immensely, and worst of all was that they now held the advantage to act accordingly. As he felt the trap closing in around him, a rare pang of fear filled his being. He was being watched over carefully by his own men, and it was crucial to his well-being they feared his wrath more than ending the siege. Ramsay had to insure that they remained loyal and did not contemplate handing him over to the Starks in the same manner the Ironborn filth had betrayed Theon Greyjoy at Winterfell. The lack of respect for their Prince had sent Theon right into his little dungeon of horror, and Ramsay did not plan to find himself in a similar situation or any situation involving the Starks deciding his fate, that much was for certain.

“Very well then.” Jon Snow raised his voice and it boomed over the wall, “ **You men who have plead fealty to House Bolton...Why do you fight and die for a man who has no honour!?! Who hides behind the walls of our family’s home like a coward? Lay down your arms and you can plead fealty to house Stark. We will welcome you with open arms, or you can return home to your own families!** ”. He halted to let the men ponder on the proposal. “ **If you are honourable men, give us Ramsay Bolton who murdered our brother Rickon Stark!** ”.

Promptly, Ramsay grabbed his bow and shot an arrow at Jon’s head. Sansa let out a gasp and her horse reared, giving off a startled neigh. As fast as Ramsay had ever seen a human being move, Tormund Giantsbane blocked Jon’s face with his shield. The arrow wedged three inches into the metal but left Snow unharmed. “ **You little cowardly CUNT!** ”, Tormund roared, spittle flying " **I'm gonna rip your guts out through your throat!!!** ". In contrast to the wildling's show of rage, Jon himself barely looked startled at the fact that the arrow could have split his head like a melon a mere second ago. "Have you started to come undone, Lord Bolton?", his voice was as calm and flat as ever. Ramsay snorted angrily and threw his bow to the ground "Burn in hell, bastard!" 

Raising one hand in the air, Jon Snow gave his party the signal for retreat. Before turning his steed around the Lord Commander's eyes locked on Ramsay's. “There won´t be any more parleys. We will wait until your men either surrender or until Winter has claimed you all. It is entirely up to you whether or not you want to sacrifice your people for nothing. We have shelter, provisions, the woods...you only have the shelter covered and that won´t help you none. Your food stores will run out soon enough, then the sickness will spread and you will all perish. For the sake of the many lives beneath your banner, I hope you come to your senses before that happens”, he paused. “Goodbye, Lord Bolton.” Jon gave his reins a snap and the party rode off. Sansa, looking over her shoulder sent Ramsay a glower of deadly promise before following the others.

As Ramsay descended from the wall gritting his teeth in silent fury, he could feel tension in the air. The murmurs among the men were no longer covertly shared but out in the open for anyone to hear. Standing around in small clusters some were eyeing him with skepticism, others with poorly repressed anger visible in their tired, starved faces. _It has begun_ , he realised not entirely unafraid, _I am loosing control...the time has come for a new plan._

Ramsay retreated to his chambers where he picked out a few pieces of jewellery and gold coins that had belonged to his father and Fat Walda. He bundled it all up in a burlap sack then sent for one of the kitchen maids to bring him a generous serving of fruits, cheese and bread which she returned with shortly thereafter. He took as much as he deemed necessary for his purpose and bundled it up along with the jewelry, careful not to make the sack too heavy. _Can't overdo it...it will only slow me down._ When he had found the weight acceptable, he placed the sack by the door and called for the soldier responsible for provisions. “Give the men as much mead and wine tonight as they can possibly drink”, he said with a big smile, “they deserve a treat for all their hard work”.


	7. Tomb

It did not take Ramsay long to decide on the outfit that would serve best as a commoner disguise. Rummaging through his wardrobe, he picked out the same set of clothing he had worn the day Theon Greyjoy had been tricked back into the Dreadfort's torture chamber where his true suffering was only about to begin. It had already proven worthy of the task considering that the Turncloak had regarded him as nothing more than a servant boy eager to aid him in his escape. What a game it had been. The look on Theon's face had been so precious the moment he realized the extent of the illusion his captor had created. As it turned out Ramsay was no wide-eyed little helper but a fiend embodying his worst nightmare.

Hastily, he bundled up the clothes and put it in the sack then grabbed the other sack filled with food and jewellery from behind the door and left his chambers, waving off the two guards who were about to follow after him. “I am going into the tombs and I wish not to be disturbed, no matter the cause”.

***

The crypt was cold and damp, droplets of condensed water plopping down from the ceiling. Ramsay lit a torch at the entrance and descended down the stairs. He could feel the scrutinizing stares of dead Starks follow him down the isle as if they were passing their self-righteous judgement from the afterlife. Easing himself down onto his rear amongst the statues he inspected their faces in the flickering light of the torch. They were all tall and slim with noble features that emitted honour and strength. The sight of their undeniable glory, even in death, and the harrowing memory their bloodline represented made a strong acid fill his mouth. It was a taste so sour Ramsay could not stand to swallow, so he spat out the bitterness instead; the mist of saliva landing at the foot of one of the disdainful females.

Ramsay snorted at her. The dead never did scare him nor did the living, although his father had been the only exception to the rule. Roose was gone and it was Ramsay who had stuck the dagger in his gut, killing him. Fortunately for him it was not the other way around even though that easily could have been his fate. The constant mind game between father and son may have seemed tireless, but there was never any guaranty Roose would not one day decide to put an end to it, and to Ramsay as well. Lord Bolton would rarely skip a chance to humiliate his bastard son, reminding him of his untrue lineage and thereby implying that he would never be the heir to the Dreadfort. Every time he uttered the word _bastard_ or _Snow_ , a flush of heat coursed through Ramsay’s being. It was apparent his father regarded him as little more than a vexing failure, stripped of discipline and unable to control his urges.

In return Ramsay would seek out boundaries inside and outside the castle walls. Even though the Boltons were notorious amongst the local villagers for being merciless rulers, a highborn was not officially above the law nor was their bastard offspring. There were still certain regulations and standards Ramsay had to abide by being the illegitimate son of Roose. He may have held the title of Lord of the Land, but father still answered to the Starks. There was always the risk of word travelling to Winterfell about unauthorized killings and torture of innocents. Roose was a ruthless man but unlike Ramsay, he did not kill for his own amusement. He understood it was ill-advised - or dangerous even - to attract Eddard Stark´s attention on account of abusing his authority. Every time Ramsay killed or maimed a local peasant, Roose would enhance his level of degradation towards his son in an attempt to make him submit to his ways. Usually Ramsay would keep a low profile for a week or two making his Sire think that he had succeeded in breaking him, then when a appropriate amount of time had passed, and Roose had begun to feel like a victor, he would initiate the savage behavior all over again.

The constant insubordination was Ramsay´s way of spiting his father. It was apparent that he was kept around for a reason, and that the reason was not affection, for neither men ever did anything considered good or decent unless it was in their own best interest. In that regard father and son were very much alike. When Roose legitimized and invited him to participate in the battle planning against Stannis Baratheon, Ramsay knew that he only did so out of necessity. He needed a trueborn son to strengthen his ties with the other northern houses still loyal to the wolves. It was the moment Ramsay had been longing for his entire life and he felt his eyes tear up, his bottom lip quivering as Roose announced the royal decree issued by Tommen Baratheon that finally declared him a trueborn son and future ruler of the Bolton dynasty.

Sadly, the joy he felt of his newly attained status had been short-lived. With a mere push of his stepmother’s twat his little brother had arrived in the world, rendering Ramsay instantly expendable. It was only a matter of time before Roose would find him too much of a nuisance or liability to keep around, and he couldn´t very well make him a Snow again. There was only one way to remove a problem like so, and that was to make it go away for good. He did not doubt, even for a second, his father would dispose of him if he was deemed a threat to either his own rule or to the life of his newborn son. He decided to strike first before Roose had a chance to do so. _Eat or be eaten_. It was his most important lesson learned in life and the deal handed down from father to son. The snake pit was overcrowded, and Ramsay needed room to grow so he murdered them all.

Still, it would have been comforting if Roose had been there during the siege. His father would have known what to do to prevent such a predicament Ramsay currently found himself in. He was as clever as he was predictive, always three steps ahead of everybody else and he had a very good handle on the men also, better than Ramsay ever had. Roose even had the ability to convince other Lords he had goodness and honor in him which was no small deception. _What a jest_. Ramsay snorted. Roose was as much a monster as himself only wearing a better disguise.

Regardless of his deep-rooted resentment of the man, Ramsay did envy his father's ability to cloak his real self. While Ramsay was good at keeping a straight face in most hair-raising situations, hiding his true nature for longer periods of time was a different matter. At some point, the madness in his eyes would inevitably shine through and he would be driven by his impulses once again. Roose often said that it would be his downfall if he didn´t learn to control himself, but Ramsay knew he had fooled his fair share of people and that he, at least to some extent, could keep a lid on his urges. _I was the one to take you down old man...let us not forget that._ The victory had been his in the end, and he felt a stab of pride at the thought of having outplayed the master of deceit at his own game.

The sound of muffled voices somewhere above him put a halt to his reminiscence. Men were going about their daily affairs in the courtyard, but hopefully they would soon cease work and start drinking instead. The Starks were looking on in silence as Ramsay changed into his new garments, tying a cloak around his shoulders. He did not recognize neither Lord Eddard nor Rob Stark amongst the statues, and he guessed that their remains had not made it back to Winterfell before the Ironborn had claimed the castle. There were still a few hours till darkness would allow him to venture out of the crypt hopefully undetected. Ramsay sat down in the midst of the judgemental wolves carved in stone and waited for nightfall.


	8. The Great Escape

Two hours passed before Ramsay sneaked a peek through the door. He could see men laughing, drinking ale and wine. Some had already passed out from the drink while a few gathered suspiciously around tables, talking in low voices and looking frequently over their shoulders. Two drunk idiots were putting on a buffoonish show of imitating a buggering of one another to the bystanders great amusement. Fortunately, the vulgar show had drawn the attention of a majority of the soldiers and it was a perfect time for him to make a dash for it. Ramsay eased out of the door and into the shadows.

The night sky was cloudy so there were plenty of dark nooks and crannies to hide in on his way towards his destination: a door a few hundred paces from the crypt. Ramsay moved as stealthy as a cat and managed to reach the door, slipping through it undetected. A staircase led down to a small and narrow cellar with a few rows of wine barrels on either side. Reek had shown it to him once and confessed that there was a secret passage leading to the forest beyond Winterfell. It was the same exit the wildling woman had used to smuggle out Rickon Stark; now, it would serve as an escape route for the former Lord of Winterfell. Ramsay gritted his teeth at the thought of his lost honor as he removed one of the barrels from the rack. It was empty and served only as camouflage for the wooden plank hidden underneath. He pulled of the plank revealing a narrow hole in the ground strengthened by wood to keep it from caving in on itself.

 _This is it,_ he thought _, there is no going back after this._ The North was lost and so was his title for now at least. He had known this much since the grain deposit caught on fire. His life didn´t have to end here at Winterfell, and he could still make something out of the loyalty of the remaining Houses, Umber, Karstark, Glover and Manderlay. Maybe he would even remarry a Lady of one. Some northerners were after all still cautious about pleading their fealty to House Stark, a bastard or a woman their only choices for a ruler. If he could only make it to the Dreadfort there were still possibilities to explore and alliances to be made. Ramsay dove headfirst into the rabbit hole, hoping that more fertile conditions than the ones he was leaving behind were waiting for him on the other side.

***

The tunnel was as uncomfortable as it was disgusting. Although Ramsay was a small, lean man he still got the feeling, he could very easily get stuck in the narrow passage. He crawled forward in the darkness on his hands and knees pushing the sack of belongings in front of him, dust and dirt creeping into his eyes, nose and mouth. The air was stuffy and humid. A rat screeched as he crushed it under the weight of his knee, making the other rodents scamper over his hands and between his legs. After having crawled for two hours his body ached all over. His eyes burned from the dirt lodged in them, but he had to keep moving no matter the pain and discomfort he felt. Time was of the essence. His soldiers would know before long that he had eloped and they would in most likelihood capitulate soon after confirming their suspicion of his absence. The Starks would commence hunting him down the very second they had retaken the castle, he was sure of it. His only advantage at the moment was that no one was looking for him outside the walls of Winterfell yet.

Hopefully, he would be able to pass for someone lowborn, a man of no importance or ties to the Boltons. In the crypt he had come up with a cover story that would fit his purpose. Robin, a miller’s son from Barrowton traveling the North to visit his family at Long Lake. He expected to come across at least a couple of travellers on his way to the Dreadfort so a credible background story could come in handy at some point. Better safe than sorry as they said. An hour and a half more had passed crawling through dirt and rat shit when the tunnel finally split into an eastwards and westwards branch. There was no indication as to where either tunnel was leading so Ramsay choose the western one, figuring it would lead him furthest away from the enemy camp.

Half an hour later the tunnel ended in a small cave with a piece of wood covering an exit above his head. Tired and sore from crawling on all fours, Ramsay sat for a few minutes flat on his ass pondering what might be lurking on the other side of the plank. What if he got up in the middle of Jon Snow's tent? Despite that his body and mind was completely exhausted, a small snicker escaped him. Dirt caked his face and he longed for fresh air to fill his lungs. Standing up straight, he lifted the piece of wood carefully over his head and glanced around. It was still dark, but he could make out some bushes ahead. A bird shrieked in the night, then the forest fell quiet again. He tussled with the piece of grass-covered wood, trying his best to minimize the sounds of it being wrenched free from the dirt and grass by rocking it lightly back and forth. Finally, after more than a minutes struggle it came loose and he could stand up breathing in the fresh air.

The night sky had cleared and the moon lit up the forest. Ramsay had been heading north, then west so he had a pretty good notion of the area he was in. The woods surrounding Winterfell were not unfamiliar to him, although he was not as acquainted with this land as the hunting grounds further north. He figured if he continued north for at least half a day then turned to the east, he would be clear of the wolves. After that it should be easy to figure out the road to Long Lake and the Lonely Hills. When he reached the lake he would know the road home by heart. _Home_. Ramsay grimaced like he was biting into a sour apple. Winterfell was no longer his but it would be again. He just needed to be patient and it would all come to him in due time. 

Roose had mastered the art of being patient. House Bolton had lived in the shadow of the Starks for a very long time, frowned upon and regarded as the uncomfortable necessity Eddard Stark had to endure to keep the north unified. Lord Stark never did care for his father that much Ramsay could tell even when he was a young boy. Patience had kept Roose waiting for the right moment to overthrow House Stark, and when he finally pounced on the opportunity at the Red Wedding it had payed off. Of course, Eddard himself had been a head shorter by then.

Ramsay had met the King in the North twice; once, when he was around ten (although he no longer recalled the particulars of that meeting, Ramsay did recall how regal Lord Eddard looked in contrast to his father and how much that fact angered him when he first laid eyes on the wolf), then again when he turned seventeen. Stark had come unannounced to the Dreadfort where Roose the night before his arrival had flayed some farmers late on their taxes, their bodies still hanging from the castle walls. The King was furious and openly disgusted by the way Roose handled his jurisdiction, and the rest of his short stay in their home had been dominated by awkward silence. After the incident Lord Stark strived to keep House Bolton at arms length at the decision table when the northern Lords got together to discuss matters of importance. Roose had not exactly broken the law (at least not that time) so there was nothing Lord Eddard could do to him.

In the North there was no fiddling with other noble families' traditions no matter what those traditions might be. Flaying men had been the Bolton way for a thousand years, but Lord Stark outlawed the practice nevertheless. It did not sit well with some of the other allied Lords and it surely did not stop Roose from flaying his enemies still. In the end Stark's prohibition accomplished nothing except to dig the already abysmal trench between their two families even deeper. Amused by the image, Ramsay stood for a second fantasizing about the face the old wolf would have pulled if he had learned what Roose Bolton’s son had done to his eldest daughter times over. It had to have been a good one...maybe even one that involved a vein throbbing in either his neck or his temple or both. Too bad he would never get to find out. After slinging the food sack over his shoulder and the bow over another, the now smiling Ramsay proceeded into the unknown woods ahead.


	9. Omen

When dawn came Ramsay was too tired to continue on. Sore from crawling through the tunnel, his muscles still aching, he looked around for a place to rest and happened upon a fitting spot soon after, a nicely concealed one situated under a waterfall that cascaded down into a small forest lake. Using his sack as a pillow, he was soon off to sleep.

His father came to him in his dreams. Ramsay found himself in a clearing amidst a scenery that could only exist further north than he had ever set foot. The ground was covered in powdered snow over a thick layer of ice with pine trees surrounding him on all sides. Roose was standing a few feet away, his eyes cloudy and skin pale as the driven snow. Ramsay could feel the iciness that eradiated from his - no -  _its_ very being, like a wisp of a winter breeze through a window. Only this breeze was carrying the horrid stench of his father's rotting flesh. _My bastard,_ the wind whispered in a disembodied voice, _you failed me, our bloodline is gone_. The ghost stood motionless. A bundle was in its arms and there was something squirming inside it. “Forgive me father...I chose to live” Ramsay confessed ruefully, and felt a growing sense of unease creep over him at the too vivid sight of his deceased Sire.

The ghost pulled the cloth aside, its movements slow and stiff as if every joint and bone in the body had been replaced by icicles. A racket of splintering and shattering noises came from beneath the robes, resonating in Ramsay’s ears making him shudder. As the bundle came open it revealed a pale, hideous creature inside, his baby brother whom he had thrown to the hounds a few months past. Half the boy’s face was missing, replaced by a gaping wound where bone and teeth were visible in the places the tissue had been peeled off. A remaining grey eye stared out at Ramsay from the disfigured face. Instead of a cheek the boy had an open hole from where a small black tongue were sticking out licking at the air, making slurping noises like water escaping down a drain. _Darkness will come soon...to you as it did to me, and our memory will fade away._ “What should I do, Father?” Ramsay’s voice was shaking, “tell me what to do!”. He felt like a small child again, lost and scared. _Accept your fate_. This time the whispering voice seemed fading. _Goodbye, Ramsay_.

With those words the ghost kissed the forehead of the creature in its arms. It was a grotesque show of affection, so unlike Roose who would have never granted a child such care while he was still alive. The disfigured thing twisted and cried out, and the ghost wrapped it back up in the bundle almost as if it was trying to shelter it from the cold like a father would a living child. With his squirming dead brother clutched against its chest, the ghost who had once been Roose Bolton turned from Ramsay and walked away. A blizzard appeared between the pines covering them in whirling snow and a moment later they were gone.

***

Ramsay woke from the dream, heart pounding in his chest. The sky was covered in grey. A small speck of light shining through the clouds directly above him was evidence that it was midday. Although he did not feel fully rested yet, the thought of meeting his father and brother again in his dreams was enough to get him moving instead of going back to sleep. Besides he had to cover some ground soon. By now, his banner men would have figured out he was missing and the majority of them (if they were smart) would take the deal the Starks had offered. Every northerner knew the Starks were an honourable bunch, that they always kept their word so the men probably would not fear any repercussions if they surrendered to them. Winterfell would be flying the direwolf banner before long, and a manhunt for Ramsay would commence soon thereafter, but he planned to be far gone by then. Ramsay bit into a piece of dried fruit, picked up his sack and bow and began trekking in a northern direction.

He was no stranger to the outdoors even though he had spent the majority of his life within the shielding walls of the Dreadfort. At a young age he started hunting with his father's men, having already killed his fair share of animals before then: kittens, rats, birds, insects...whatever wandered within his reach when he was bored met a terrible end. Ramsay learned to drag out the animals suffering, listening to the squeaks and screams, watching with fascination its death struggle. Of course, stalking prey in the woods had turned out to be much more satisfying than killing a defenceless animal cowering in a corner, though it had been good practice before taking on larger game.

The delight of seeing a frightened animal foaming at the mouth, driven forward by the sound of barking hounds. He would put an arrow in its stomach or somewhere else non-mortal just to see it tumble to the ground and wallow in those last delicious moments when the animal would thrash and scream out in agony and fear. Then he would finish it off with a knife or, depending on his mood, let it bleed out on its own. Ramsay was quite skilled in skinning animals, but before long it would be people who would feel his talent with the blade. Roose had promised him so. He just had to work his way up from the four-legged to the two-legged kind of prey.

If a hunt was particularly exiting he would get hard, his member straining against his breeches. In later years Myranda would join him on the hunts. After a kill their eyes would lock in mutual desperation to fuck away their desires. She was as exited as himself by the killing, sometimes even more so, and the two hunters would find release in each other on the ground next to the dead or dying prey with a smell of blood filling the air around them. He missed those hunts with Myranda and the girls, but those kinds of pleasures were unfortunately all over and done with for now. The kennel-master’s daughter was gone, and the girls would surely be put down when the Starks had retaken Winterfell. If he made it back to the Dreadfort he could get another Myranda and other dogs, but for the moment nature seemed to have lost its appeal to him.

It was cold and uncomfortable and no one was there to service him. Ramsay didn´t feel like he was the one doing the stalking anymore, using the cover of the woods to his advantage. The trees and bushes seemed to somehow have turned on him, each of them potentially hiding an enemy fixing to either kill him or take him prisoner. Ramsay even fell on his face twice. Once over a tree stump when he wasn´t paying attention and another time he tripped over his own damned feet, leaving him fuming on the ground for several minutes afterwards.

He walked for hours, only stopping to relieve himself or eating some of the provisions. Dusk crept over the forest and Ramsay decided that the time to get some rest had come. Despite his worn out state he had covered a lot of ground and was overall satisfied with the days achievement. His feet had suffered, a few minor blisters now covered the heels and balls of his feet. _Please...be gone Father_. The chilling sight of Roose’s ghost and the disfigured creature that were his dead brother was not one he needed to experience ever again. _Accept you fate_. The words kept haunting him but he managed to push it aside. Survival was the goal now, and past regrets were not helping him in any way to archive that. This was no endgame but a chance at rising to power and former glory once again. Ramsay sat down at the foot of an old oaktree and bundled himself up in his cloak. Soon sleep took him into its arms. This time it was mercifull and did not bring any dreams with it.


	10. Close Call

A narrow beam of sunlight broke through the leaves of the treetops above and hit his face, warming it. Ramsay opened his eyes sleepily and closed them again. _Just a few more moments_. The sound of chirping birds in a nearby tree reminded him of his newly achieved freedom from the Winterfell captivity. He stretched, giving off a contented yawn. Savoring the warmth on his skin and singing of the dawn chorus his consciousness ebbed out once again.

“Seven blessings” A man’s hoarse voice rang out above his head. Ramsay’s eyes flew wide open and every strand of hair on his body stood at attention at the startling announcement too close to him. Two men stood bent over his frame watching him with keen interest. They were Stark soldiers, carrying the direwolf sigil on their chest plates and swords hung sheathed on their hips. Realising the immediate threat, Ramsay quickly collected himself. “Ahh, yes…err...you startled me” , he let out a small grin, “ and seven blessings to you, Ser”. He rose to his feet but started swaying, his weary legs making him almost tip over. The men took a step back leaving a little space between themselves and Ramsay. While taking measure of the soldiers he gave them an innocent look.Both men were much larger than himself and could easily overpower him if given a reason to do so.

“Where are we going friend?”, one soldier inquired. He had a finely cropped black hair with specks of grey in it and was a little shorter than the other one, a brutish looking blonde who had his nose broken recently; the snuffer being still swollen and blackish-blue around the edges added perfectly to his almost comical gruff appearance. The blonde did not look as though Ramsay´s charm was getting through to him, in fact he looked like a man who was far from won over. Ramsay’s face froze in a wide-eyed expression as his cover story had suddenly dismissed itself from his memory. “Long Lake”, he almost blurted it out when the lie finally popped back into his brain, “My family live in the area. I came up from South of here…Barrowtown.” He smiled. “I've been traveling for a few days and if the gods will it, I will be reunited with my dear kin before darkness settles”.

The dark haired man wearing a deadpan expression gave him a small nod. “Might I enquire as to what two fine Stark men like yourselves are doing this far North?”. The blonde soldier narrowed his eyes at him; his scepticism was written all over his face. “Just passing through...keeping an eye out for anything  _unusual_ ”. Ramsay felt his stomach clench in alarm at the man's word stress. Doing his very best to cloak his growing nervousness, he pointed to the sack containing his provisions. “Well, I myself have not come across such a thing, but...perhaps I can offer you some meat and bread to make up for my lack of attention? I have met no-one since I left town, and to be honest it is starting to get a little lonely on the road". “You´ve travelled this way before?” The man asked, ignoring his offer. Ramsay did not care for their annoying inquiries. They weren't softening up to him like they were supposed to and this was going nowhere good. Ramsay prepared himself to strike first. It was the only chance he had of coming out of a brawl with these men victoriously. “Oh yeah, loads of times. Like I said, my fam…”

“What’s your name?”, the blonde brute interrupted him harshly. Ramsay’s mouth felt dry and he had to fight the urge not to lick his lips for moisture. “Robin”, he managed to croak, before his throat tightened and he let out a small cough. “Well, Robin”, The soldier tilted his head, looking down into Ramsay’s eyes. “It is freezing out here...so why haven´t you build a fire to keep you warm during the night? That does seems very _unusual_ to me”. He was ready to jump him, his hand creeping towards the sword on his hip. Ramsay could have tried to talk his way out of it, but if he failed to do so he would have lost his only leverage: a surprise attack.

Ramsay sprang forward, and with all his strength he kneed the blonde in the groin making him roar out and fall to his knees, cupping himself. Swiftly, he reached under his cloak and pulled out the dagger. The other soldier, already unsheathing his sword, had reacted promptly when he saw his partner go down, but given the head start and his lack of heavy clothing, Ramsay was quicker than him. Before the man could get his weapon fully out of the sheath and swing it, Ramsay had rammed the dagger into the side of his throat, pulled it out and rammed it back in again. Blood came pouring out of the wounds in long, pulsating squirts, some of it spraying onto Ramsay´s face like misty rain. The soldier’s eyes bulged and his mouth opened and closed resembling a fish out of water. Ramsay pulled out his dagger and the dying man crashed face first into the dirt.

He was about to turn around when he felt a strong hand grab a hold of his shin. “You little shit!”, the blonde roared, and Ramsay lost his balance as the man pulled him forcefully downwards, sending him tumbling to the ground. Immediately, the soldier was on top of him wrenching the dagger out of his hand. The beast had at least sixty pounds on him and was immensely stronger. A hand closed tight around Ramsay's throat, and he kicked and squirmed under the heavy body threatening to crush the last breath out of his lungs. To his great horror, he felt his grip on the weapon loosen. _Fuck,_ was all he had time to think before the man had pulled back his fist and punched him square in the face, sending his world into a spin.

The soldier lifted himself of Ramsay, grabbed him by the hair and yanked him to his feet. “Get the fuck up here!” He sneered through clenched teeth and hammered his fist into Ramsay’s gut who as a result bent forward, letting out a breathless gasp. “I thought, it looked like you, _bastard_ ”. Ramsay opened his mouth to return the insult but only a guttural sound, half choked in blood and spittle came out. “My lady will be pleased. A lot of gold has been promised to the one who brings you back to her alive, and I intend to collect her reward but before I do….”

Still holding him by the hair with one hand the blonde grabbed Ramsay's face with the other, his thumb and fingers digging into the hollow of his cheeks. His beady little eyes were bloodshot and furious, and Ramsay could smell his sour breath as he spit in his face. “...I´ll make you regret you were ever pulled from your whore mother’s twat”. Ramsay’s lips curled into a smile, the blood trickling from his nose and down his chin blending with the man's spittle gave him the appearance of a joyous lunatic.

The soldier's rage-filled expression morphed into one of sadistic amusement. “You. Little. Cunt” He sneered into his face and commenced applying pressure to the grip around Ramsay’s jaw. The bone made a grinding noise inside his skull, and Ramsay squirmed in the man's clutch. With a quick move he swept his feet from under him with one clean sweep, and Ramsay hit the ground once again, this time landing flat on his stomach. Instantly on top of him with a knee in the back, Ramsay's attacker started tearing at his clothes. Confused, he lay thrashing for a moment before the man's intentions dawned on him and turned what had begun as frantic struggling into a panicked frenzy instead. He bucked and fought desperately as the soldier started pulling down his breeches. _No! No! NO!_

“Shut up!” The blonde grabbed a fistful of Ramsay’s hair and slammed his head down into the frozen ground making his body go limp at impact. The world was spinning again. He could hear his attacker uttering vulgare, lewd comments about what he was going to do to him. Ramsay could feel him breathing on his neck, his weight was crushing the air out of his lungs. All strength seemed to have left his body and he could no longer see straight as the second blow to his head had nearly rendered him unconscious. Behind him the soldier tore at his clothes like a wild animal to get to his flesh. As he felt rough hands groping his bare skin, a desperate idea entered his mind. Rapidly, he slammed his head backwards, hitting the swine on the bridge of his nose with great force. The man hollered and fell of Ramsay´s back, blood gushing from his face.

Swift on his feet, Ramsay dove for the dagger. Seizing it, he turned to face the blonde man now on his knees, holding a hand to his nose and glaring at him with promise of murder in his eyes. Blood was cascading down his face and chest, coloring the direwolf on his attire a dark red. “You fuckin´ bastar…” His sentence was cut off as Ramsay hurled the dagger into his skull, fastening the blade where the broken nose used to be. The soldier's body fell to the ground with a _thunk!_

Ramsay swayed for a second, then collapsed next to the still jittering corpse. His breeches were pulled halfway down over his rear and he hauled them back up with trembling hands. For the first time in a long time he felt truly shaken to the core. He sat for a second trying to comprehend what had nearly happened to him. His anger started welling to the surface, alongside it a feeling of disgust and humiliation followed. Ramsay had to blink away a couple of tears that formed in the corner of his eyes. _Cannot linger here,_ his thoughts were slowly becoming coherent again, _need to get as far north as I can, and fast._

He got up with a small, agonized growl. The blow to his abdomen were still hurting his gut. Ramsay limped over to the blonde, placed a boot on his shoulder and pulled the dagger free from the skull. A crunching sound could be heard as the metal twisted and broke free from bone. The body sank back with a dull thud. Ramsay spat in the dead man´s mangled face, then he stabbed him again - and again.

The similarity between the incident he had just now survived and the ordeal he had put Theon Greyjoy through under his so-called escape attempt from the Dreadfort, made Ramsay shudder. The irony was not entirely lost on him. When informing his soldiers of the intended punishment for the eloping Prince, some had been more compliant than others to carry out the orders. It had all been a game of course. He never intended for Theon to be ravished by his men, only building some trust and gratitude towards the servant boy who had saved him from such a horrible, humiliating violation. The soldiers themselves were also a part of his little game, and it had been an immense delight to put an arrow through each one of them once they had finally realized their Lord's betrayal.

He stood for a second contemplating to hide the bodies of the men but thought better of it. Both bastards were too heavy and covering them up would take too much of his precious time. He gathered his belongings still laying in a heap next to the oaktree, and followed the soldiers tracks a few hundred feet into a small cluster of bushes where they had secured their steeds, two half-starved mares.

Ramsay picked the healthiest-looking animal and slit the other´s throat with his dagger. It fell squealing to the ground, bleeding out. He mounted the remaining horse and looked around, his brow furling as he listened to the surroundings intently. The forest had gone quiet again. It was still morning, and he wanted to get as much distance between himself and Winterfell before nightfall. Ramsay snapped the reins and kicked the mare's sides, sending her into a gallop.


	11. Long Road Home

He steered the horse northwards along a narrow dirt road until the dimming light made it too difficult for him to navigate. The only people he had encountered on the way were a couple of peasants, pulling along their handcart loaded with winter crops. Forewarned by the creaking of wheels, he pulled the horse off the road and hid in the bushes, then watched from his cover as the unheeded men travelled past and disappeared further down the path. 

Ramsay secured the mare to a tree and trekked a few hundred yards into the undergrowth, settling himself on the forest floor. He was still sore, his head throbbing from the attack. Remembering how the two soldiers had sneaked up on him earlier in the day made him jittery, and he hardly dared to close his eyes and drift off even though he needed sleep badly. The mare was not in the best condition, starved and overworked as she was, but if he avoided putting the beast under too much strain the next day or two, he figured she could still carry him the rest of the way to the Dreadfort. At last his body gave in to exhaustion and he fell asleep on top a bed of spongy, soft moss. Thankfully, his downtime was without interruption; no uninvited ghosts or perverted soldiers turned up to torment him.

The following day's journey passed uneventfully, enlivened only by the occasional sighting of one of the forrest's inhabitants. When the damp of dusk started creeping out from under the surrounding trees, Ramsay decided to halt near a creek. He made sure the horse had water and gave her most of the dried fruit left in the sack. Building a small fire he allowed himself half an hour of blissful warmth before stomping out the flames again. The heat thawed his frozen body which made him drowsy and relaxed. Ramsay laid his head down staring into the dying fire, savouring the glow from the last embers on his face and soon he had dozed off.

When the dawn came they rode on again. The scenery changed from woodland to open fields as they neared the Great Lake, and after a few hours ride the mass of water appeared over the horizon. _Halfway there_. Ramsay sighed with relief and snapped the reins making the mare trot faster. The lake and its surrounding area was a hive of activity for fishermen, merchants and travellers alike. It provided not only fertile soil to the many farmsteads placed around its shores, but also large amounts of freshwater fish to most town markets in the North. By the lake’s southern end, a river emanated leading water to the seas down south. A bridge had been build there and served as passage for travellers heading in either the east- or westward direction.

Save for crossing by boat or travelling around the lake, the bridge was the only way to cross from one side to the other. The river itself was a roaring terror of swift water and deadly current and Ramsay dared not cross it by foot, even though using the bridge could risk him exposing himself to other wayfarers; if there was one place he was in real danger of being discovered for who he was it would be on that narrow crossing. There was no reason to pull up the hood of his cloak or try to otherwise hide his face, acting evasive would only make people more suspicious and attentive of him. Instead he washed himself in the river, appearing less scruffy and exhausted than he felt. The trick to hide in plain sight was to come off as colorless and ordinary as possible.

He was surprised to find that the only travellers on the bridge were some old fisherwomen and the bridge tax collector. Ramsay threw a gold coin in the collector's basket and the man, busy peeling a corn cob for lunch, nodded his head giving Ramsay the clear to pass the bridge, no questions asked. He trotted across the cobblestones past a group of women, moving sluggishly along carrying baskets full of fish. One of the old birds gave him a dull stare as he rode by, the rest never even looked up from the ground. When he reached the other side of the bridge, Ramsay let out the second relived exhalation of the day.

 _I might just make it_ , a smile played on his lips, _by this time tomorrow I will be soaking in a bath, getting ready to take on the world again_. He switched direction heading east towards the Dreadfort. The mare was close to exhaustion when he finally halted around noon. He fed the horse the leftover fruit and ran his fingers gently through her tangled, coarse mane. “Don’t give up on me, old girl!” A cheerfulness had entered his voice, and for the first time since the dreadful siege had begun, Ramsay felt enormous gratitude at the prospect of soon being within his own walls, safe from harm and with a grand new chance at reconnecting with his allies and conquering the North once again.

At the break of dawn they set off for the last time. The mare seemed to have regained some strength over night, as if she knew they were close to their journey´s end. Ramsay picked up speed, ignoring the soreness he felt from not having ridden a horse in months and the bruises he had earned from the encounter with the Stark soldiers. The woods east of the lake were dense and made an effective cover from prying eyes. He met no travellers on the road which left him a bit puzzled, but then the area surrounding the Dreadfort was not the most well travelled piece of land in Westeros and it was nearing winter time. Commoners seemed to go to great lengths avoiding going anyway near the Dreadfort, especially in the colder months when the occupants within the castle were bored out of their minds. _As well they should_ , Ramsay smiled wickedly at the thought of his kin's gruesome notoriety.

When the castle appeared above the treeline covered in morning fog, a feeling of great joy swept through Ramsay’s heart. He put his heels to the steed's sides and galloped full throttle down the narrow road, leaving behind him a trail of dust and whirling leaves. The Dreadfort in all its enormity, towered dim and silent above the bleak landscape. On the road beneath it, its long lost Lord was finally returning home.


	12. Greetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay returns to the Dreadfort.

A few crows took flight as Ramsay neared the drawbridge. The sound of hooves clopping against the wooden planks made him nostalgic, and he smiled as he rode up to the entrance, brimming with sweet memories from his past. His cocky, confident self was finally returning after a long, bitter timeout spent within the walls of the besieged hellhole that was Winterfell.

He found the gates closed. A flayed man banner hung from the castle wall, waving lazily at him in the gentle breeze. Everything seemed so peaceful and quiet that he for a fleeting moment suspected the castle had been abandoned. He looked around and spotted a guard standing on top of the wall, watching him. “Your Lord has returned! Open the gate!”, he shouted at the top of his voice.

On the rampart the man remained motionless. “Open the gate and hurry it up! I don´t have all day!”. Despite his increasing irritation with the delay in obedience, Ramsay managed to remain tranquil, and instead of spewing threats at the sluggish subordinate, he merely rolled his eyes. “Off we go, man! _Please and thank you!_ ”. He bowed sarcastically foreward, a hand on his chest.

The guard turned from the wall and disappeared. Ramsay shifted in the saddle. His rear and thighs hurt from riding so extensively the last couple of days, but he hadn´t noticed to what an extent until now. He has looking forward to a nice, warm bath, a proper meal and perhaps a shag with one of the maids to wash away any unpleasant memories of what had taken place during the brawl with the Stark soldier. There had to be someone left inside the Dreadfort worth fucking still.

A few minutes passed. Were his men becoming daft? They all knew what he could do to them and _would do,_ if they made him stand there for too long, waiting to be let inside his own gates. Ramsay looked up at the wall. Nobody was there. He was about to call out again when he heard someone on the other side of the gate removing the bar, followed by the clanking of heavy hinges as the entrance came open before him. He kicked the mare's sides and rode through, the gates closing behind him with a loud, deafening _thump!_.

The courtyard was empty.

He whipped his head around to ask the guard where in the seven hells everybody was at, when suddenly his joyous smile faded and his body tensed up. Up close it became apparent to Ramsay that the guards who had opened the gate a mere moment ago were not his own men. By the looks of them, they were Ironborn; with their characteristic unkempt, scruffy looks, dressed in dark leather rags it seemed like they for some imbecilic reason strived to give of the appearance of vagrants rather than soldiers. He had on more than one occasion become acquainted with the islanders, one time at Winterfell and the other at Moat Cailin when he had claimed them, and neither times spoke to his benefit in the current predicament. Ramsay sank down into the saddle, his jaw slacked open with disbelief at the inconceivable change in circumstance. A raspy, deep voice with a playful tone rang out from one of the balconies. “Welcome home... _Lord Bolton_ ”.

He did not have time to think, let alone look at the man who had spoken, before the horse disappeared under him with an arrow piercing its heart. The steed landed on its side sending Ramsay tumbling along the ground and barely avoiding getting his leg caught under its weight. Before he could regain control of his body, he was grabbed by both arms and dragged to his feet where two men promptly stripped him of his weapons and other belongings. For once he had nothing to say derisively or otherwise. Ramsay struggled in the men's firm grips but only half-heartedly for he knew, he wasn't going anywhere.

The owner of the rough voice came strolling down the stairs from the balcony very slowly and confident, as if he had all the time in the world at his disposal. He was tall with a strong, sturdy build and looked to be decade or maybe two older than Ramsay. It was hard to tell with the Ironborn; the salt and wind of the sea made their faces appear weather-beaten and older than they were. On his head covered by thick, light-brown hair he wore a crown-like headpiece pieced together from driftwood. The man, a big smile on his bearded face and cheerfulness shining from his eyes, ambled towards him with open arms in a sarcastic gesture of greeting.

Ramsay felt a knot form in his stomach and his mouth went dry as if he had just swallowed a handful of salt. It was not the face of someone bidding him welcome home or granting him any kind of hospitality whatsoever. No, the face belonged to someone who was part mad, part something else. The leather rags and crown of twigs combined with the man's overly euphoric expression gave him the appearance of a raving lunatic, yet the sly glint in his eyes revealed that a cunning nature was present inside the mad chaos also. Ramsay recognized it very well - too well in fact. It reminded him of himself and that could not be a good thing at all.

The Reaver halted in front of him and smiled down into his face revealing a set of perfect white teeth. _A shark’s grin_ , Ramsay thought, suddenly becoming conscious of the feeling of unease the man put in him. The Ironborn stood so close he could smell the salt and seaweed coming from his garments. “So you are the infamous bastard, huh? The one who gelded my nephew?”. Sincere amusement shone from the depths of his dark-blue eyes. Ramsay gave him a fidgety stare but said nothing. Apparently not minding the lack of a reply the man continued on. “Well, I guess that I should thank you...making him a eunuch only made my claim to the Salt Throne that much stronger”.

With that, he grabbed a handful of Ramsay’s hair and pulled his head painfully backwards, forcing him to look up into his face. The smile was gone now, replaced by an angry sneer. “So  _thank you,_ Ramsay, that was very kind of you. I am Euron Greyjoy, Ruler of the Iron Islands” He stared into his captive's wide, bewildered eyes for a moment. “Poor boy”, the King sighed and petted Ramsay’s cheek with the back of his hand, “you really have no idea what you are in for”.


	13. The Reaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay Bolton has returned to the Dreadfort and has been taken prisoner by Euron Greyjoy.  
> I'm sorry, but from this point on it gets pretty sadistic.

Ramsay stumbled into the cell, shoved forward by the same two guards who had restrained him during his face-to-face with Euron Greyjoy. They slammed the cell door behind them, leaving the dungeon, and Ramsay found himself alone in his new prison. He looked around the small confinement, dimly lit by torches placed sparingly along the wall. There were no windows down here only bare rocks and metal bars. The air was damp, reminding him of the crypt at Winterfell, and apart from a few iron hoops mounted in the ceiling and on the walls the sole thing that occupied the space was the soiled hay scattered across the floor. At least they had not put him in irons, and that was he supposed something to be grateful for.

He had held the Ironborn Prince confined in a similar place, though the kennels had been much dirtier, filled with drooling beasts and dogshit. His pet had been free to roam the castle, but in reality it was only a larger cell with hardly more privilege attached than being locked up in the dungeons anyway. There was no escape no matter which confinement it was, or so Ramsay had thought at the time. He halfway expected Reek to suddenly appear on the other side of the bars staring submissively down at the ground, dirty and ripe as usual...but there was no Reek, and Ramsay made a mental note of never referring to Theon as such in front of the Ironborn men and most definitely not to the Kraken himself. Even though Euron Greyjoy seemed to embrace the fact that he had cut his nephew out of the line of succession, it probably would not go over well with any of the Islanders if it became clear to them what kind of an abomination he had turned their Prince into.

Not five minutes went by before the door opened and a guard entered the dungeon. He walked up to the cell. “Take off your clothes”, he ordered. The request took Ramsay aback. _What is this now?_ The guard eyed him warningly. “No”, Ramsay stated matter-of-factly. He would not be disgraced in such a manner. Stripping him down signified nothing but forthcoming humiliation and torture, and there was no reason to make it any easier on his captors if that was to be his destiny. “Take it off!”, the guard repeated his command, this time with a growl. Ramsay sent him a look of utter resentment and spat on the floor. “No! You swine!”, he sneered. “Have it your way”, the Ironborn said through clenched teeth and called out for his cohorts. “Hobs! Owen! Get in here!” A moment later, two hard faced brutes appeared in the dungeon. The guard opened the cell door and all three of them went inside, making Ramsay back up against the wall as they closed in on him. “I will give you one more chance, bastard. The clothes! Now!”. Ramsay hissed at the impatient guard, “Go suck a horse's cock!”.

The men cornered him and while one grabbed Ramsay by the throat pinning him against the wall, the others proceeded to remove the layers of fabric from his body. He writhed, clawing at the hand on his neck but to no avail; the soldier had him in an iron grip and it did not take the others long to strip him down to his bare ass, exposing his flesh to the dank, chill air. As soon as the deed was done, the man holding him let go and all three Ironborn backed away from their heaving prisoner, eyes ablaze with fury. They closed the door to his cell and left the dungeon, taking off with his clothes. One of them called him a cunt on the way out and spat in his direction. Alone once again, Ramsay sat down in the dirty hay, pulled his legs up to the chest and rested his chin on crossed arms.

He knew the dungeon like the back of his own hand and there was no escaping from it unless he could somehow get out of the cell. There was nothing left to do now but await the fate the Ironborn decided should be bestowed upon him. He just hoped it would be quick and painless, although it probably wouldn´t be seeing as how he had tortured Theon and disposed of the Ironborn at Winterfell and Moat Cailin. Even though most of the islanders came off as crude simpletons, it was hard to imagine that they could have forgotten the atrocities Ramsay Bolton had committed against their people. The offer the wolves had made him suddenly seemed quite appealing, considering what else might lay in store for him from this point on. He sat for an hour dwelling on his current plight. _By which method do the Ironborn dispose of their enemies? a hanging? or perhaps they drowned them?_ The recent turn of events had rattled his perception of reality, and he was so pre-occupied with speculating about the possible outcome of his predicament, he had not noticed a figure had slipped into the dungeon and now stood in front of his cell.

“Ahem”, the man cleared his throat. Euron Greyjoy was grinning sinisterly down at him as ragged and insane looking as earlier, though this time without the ridiculous crown. He grabbed the bars with both hands and squatted down to Ramsay’s eye level, ogling him as if he was studying a newly acquired pet in a cage. “Aww. You look right at home here, little Lord.” His taunting words were as pointed sticks jabbed into Ramsay’s pride, and he contemplated for a second retaliating but thought better of it. Provoking someone you weren’t familiar with and who held your destiny in their hands seemed ill-advised at the moment, even to Ramsay. Besides, this was a Greyjoy, not a Stark; members of the former House were not exactly known for neither their clemency nor forbearance towards their enemies, so Ramsay had to thread as carefully as he could under the circumstances and get a feel of the man before making his move. He shifted uncomfortably on his rear end but remained quiet. Greyjoy sucked his teeth. “Sorry about the clothes...we can´t have you ending yourself before we've had our fun with you, now can we?”. Euron stood up and opened the cell door, his frame nearly filling the entrance as he strolled through it in that same confident manner he had displayed in the courtyard earlier that day.

 _Our fun_. Ramsay had heard stories about the Crow's Eye from Reek, though at that time the former prince of Pyke had only met his uncle once as a boy. Ramsay knew about the Kraken’s conquests, lust for power and last but not least his apparent madness. He had scourged the oceans around Westeros and Essos on the “Silence”, a ship crewed entirely by mutes whose tongues Greyjoy himself had removed for no other reason than, as Reek had put it: “he needed the silence, Master.” He was presumed dead before he suddenly reappeared on Pyke shortly before Balon Greyjoy mysteriously fell to his death. Days after he managed to snatch the throne and title right from under Yara Greyjoy.

Ramsay wanted to know all about House Greyjoy, for at some point down the line when every rebellion in the North had been destroyed, he would turn to the Iron Islands conquering them also and thereby strengthening his position against the Lannisters. Every bit of information on an enemy could at one point deem crucial, so he listened with keen interest as Reek disclosed his uncle’s savagery; Killing, raping and reaving his way through costal towns and villages all over the world. When hearing the stories he had been amused, thinking that Greyjoy was a man after his own heart. At this moment however, when actually being face-to-face with the Reaper, the anecdotes of his lunacy no longer seemed as entertaining as they once had been.

The King came to a halt in front of Ramsay who was watching him cautiously from his place on the floor. Looking around the cell, he inspected the ceiling and walls. The shark's grin on his face seemed to have frozen in place, white teeth glimmering in the light of the flame. “Get up”, he ordered, and with reluctance Ramsay stood up slowly, cursing under his breath. Even though he resented doing the man's bidding, the instinctive fear Greyjoy put in him made him comply nevertheless. Should it come to a physical altercation between the two, Ramsay knew that he would undoubtedly lose without a weapon of some sort. As tempting as it was to throw himself at his captor, trying his luck at bashing his skull in, an attack would have to wait for a more opportune moment than this one. “Good boy”. Euron laid his hands on Ramsay´s shoulders, rough fingertips slithering over his collarbone and up along his neck. He stood taller than him by more than a foot and Ramsay could not help but cower a bit, naked and exposed as he were in front of the intimidating presence. 

Euron’s finger reached his face, trailing down his cheek before finally cupping Ramsay’s chin in his large hand. Flinching at the odd caress, Ramsay had to fight the urge not to retract his face. He calmed himself and remained in place, staring hatefully into the man’s eyes instead. Greyjoy’s smile widened, “by the drowned God, it´s been so long since I have had the pleasure of a woman…I should have brought a salt wife“, he sighed, gently brushing his thumb over Ramsay’s lips, “usually we never stay out of the sea for too long for it to be a problem; you see, the land turns us soft and weak like my nephew”. A wave of anxiety hit him, and he sneered into Euron’s face trying to cloak his dismay of the vile words he had spoken. Was the Ironborn really making that kind of a threat? or was it just drivel meant to startle him?

 _He´s playing a game with me, he would never dare such...such deviancy_. Though tolerated some places in the South, at least to some extent, men laying down with other men was in general frowned upon or even made illegal by law in all of the Seven Kingdoms. It would be considered an outrageous perversion and completely unacceptable by their own people, if a northern Lord had such tendencies and acted upon them. Ramsay figured the same code of conduct applied even to the uncivilized Ironborn scum. A flash of the encounter with the Stark men rushed through his mind then, making him want to curl up inside himself.

He had to remain proud and defiant even in the face of such a horrendous threat. If Greyjoy wanted anything from him it would be information most likely concerning the Starks and Winterfell. The Ironborn were notoriously know as a greedy bunch of self-assured cunts, starting wars left and right they had no chance of winning. Perhaps, in their delusions of grandeur and now that the wolves were weakened in numbers, they had decided to make a move against the main seat of the North itself. If it was not information Euron was seeking he could only be in it for the revenge, Ramsay figured. _Or maybe he just wants to break a piece off me for the sheer fun of it_. If any of the latter possibilities turned out to be relevant, he would have to irk the Salt King into killing him; in a fit of rage preferably so that it would be swift. The best tools for riling someone up into a state of frenzy were fierce insults and intensive mind games, and it should not take much of an effort to provoke such condition; infuriating someone enough to act rashly were after all a specialty of his.

Winterfell was forfeit and now so was the Dreadfort. There was no longer any realistic possibility of him remaining alive for much longer or maintaining a dignified existence. His men were most likely either dead or had fled, and the remaining loyal Lords would be forced to submit to House Stark once again. He was surrounded by enemies all wanting a piece of him to hang off their walls as a trophy; the last of the flaying men, Roose Bolton´s murdering bastard displayed as a morbid sign of their victory. He had lost the great game he realized, but his own end was still his to fight for. First though, he would have to feel the Kraken out in order to discover where exactly he stood and what weakness he could use to his benefit. Everybody had shortcomings and the King would be no exception, Ramsay just had to figure out where to dig and how deep.

Although the less than subtle implication of Greyjoy's latent plans had startled Ramsay, he retorted without any visible discomfort of the looming threat. “If it is a wench you seek, there is a brothel just over the Weeping Water”, Ramsay curled his lip in disdain, “I recommend the one called Mary. She looks like a dark haired Cersei Lannister or so I´ve been told...never laid eyes on the golden bitch”. When hearing Ramsay's proposal Greyjoy smiled wide, seemingly amused by his words, “It is very kind of you to share your experiences from the local brothel, Ramsay”. The raspy voice had turned honeyed all of a sudden, but he made no further indication of revealing his intentions towards him. The King, still cupping Ramsay's chin, stared intensely into his face. The feeling of unease was drilling itself deeper and deeper into his marrow, and finally when Ramsay could not stand the unpleasant gaze any longer, he snapped, “what is it you want from me, Lord Greyjoy?!”.

“What do you think I want, Lord Bolton?” Euron asked, narrowing one eye. “I think you desire knowledge of Winterfell in order to claim it”. Absorbing his prisoner's words the Ironborn tilted his head implying slight curiosity “Go on...” He removed his hand from Ramsay’s chin, resting it gently on his shoulder instead. “and that I can give you that insight, and you are right you know...I can help you take Winterfell”, a confidence had crept into Ramsay's voice; now seemed like the perfect time to be bold, to present himself as the valuable asset he knew he was “I hate the Starks as much as you do, Lord Greyjoy, the bastards held your own nephew, your own blood, captive for yea…”.

 _WHAP_! The backhand made his head whip to the side. He looked up into Greyjoy’s stern face with eyes ablaze. “So did you, boy, don´t think I have forgotten that. I may despise my family but they are mine to maim and kill, not yours”. The Reaper narrowed his eyes at him. “Try again”. _Then there can only be one outcome left, but I still get to choose the ending._ Ramsay swallowed bitterly, fighting the urge to kick the man in the balls. “Gold, then…I don´t blame you. Gold is a fine thing, and one your people enjoy above all else so I´ve heard.” The Kraken shrugged his shoulders not minding the subtle insult, “True, but still not correct though”.

 _It must be for revenge then...for Theon and the others._ “You could sell me to the Starks. They would pay you a pretty coin to cut off my head themselves, or you could gain favor with them by trading and all could benefit...well, except for myself of course”. He looked meekly down at the ground and drew in a deep breath. Even though the Starks would most surely execute him, a beheading was still a preferable end to the one the Ironborn would grant him. He had to convince Greyjoy of the benefits he could gain by returning him to Winterfell and Jon Snow´s merciful sword. “Oh, is that so? Gaining favour, you say?”. Lifting his gaze from the floor Ramsay pulled a dejected face. "Indeed, my Lord. You could become a very rich ma..."

 _SMACK!_ Once again the hand connected with Ramsay’s face, making his cheek burn and eyes water. “The drowned God needs neither favour nor gold. I pay the Iron price for everything I own”. Greyjoy seized his face with one hand, his fingers tightening around the jaw bone. No longer able to control his rage, Ramsay roared into the Kraken’s face. “Then I have nothing left to give you but my head! Take it and be done with it, you CUNT!”, he started laughing hysterically, “you fuckin´ vile squid! You seem as big a bitch as your degenerate nephew, only more hideous!”.

Ramsay’s laughter had faded into a triumphant snicker when he noticed that one of the Kraken’s fingers had travelled too close to his mouth. Rapidly he caught the digit between his teeth, biting down as hard as he could. The taste of blood filled his mouth making him gag, but he kept tearing into the bone trying to bite through it. Without uttering a sound, Greyjoy calmly pried himself loose from Ramsay´s bite by grapping a hold of his jaw with his free hand, pressing down on the joints and forcing it open. Stepping back a pace to get better lighting he inspected his finger then looked over at the bastard who now beamed, grey eyes glittering with amusement. Euron´s blood was colouring his teeth and running down his chin in thin red streaks. Ramsay spat out the blood and shredded tissue left in his mouth and sent the Reaper a challenging stare. Greyjoy stood for a moment studying Ramsay’s overt display of defiance, then a look of sincere delight replaced his stern expression. “And here I feared today was going to be boring”.

The Ironborn closed the distance between them in a flash. For such a large man, he moved with a frightening speed and agility. His hand shot out, clasping around Ramsay’s testicles and tightened the grip making the smaller man gasp and bend forward in a futile attempt to protect himself. The hold was firm, but Greyjoy had stopped squeezing short of causing any real pain or damage. Ramsay trembled at the notion that at any moment Euron could either crush his privates or tear them straight off. Expecting the worst he looked up at him with startled eyes. “Now, now, Lord Bolton, is that really how you want to treat your host? With insults and aggravations?”. He gave the balls a tight squeeze and Ramsay let out a yelp. “No, no! Forgive me! I..ahhh..spoke harshly when you have been nothing but kind to me, Lord Greyjoy”. He was panting, heart pounding away in his chest. “Please,...would you please remove your hand? I…I will be on my best behaviour from now on” Euron’s wicked smile had returned. He loosened his grip and stepped back a pace. Ramsay let out a relieved gasp, then cupped himself trying to prevent another attack. He had not seen that one coming. All the defiance and contempt he had planned to parade in front of the Kraken had left him the second the strong hand closed around his genitals.

From beneath his robes the Reaper pulled out a piece of cordage a few feet in length. “Hold out your hands”, he ordered. Frozen in place, Ramsay studied the rope tensely, making no indication of complying with his command. Greyjoy grabbed his wrists and fastened them together tightly using a fisherman's knot all the while looking his prisoner straight in the eye. “Now, lift them over you head”, Euron instructed. Ramsay swallowed and hesitantly raised the bound hands above his head. “Very good”. The King inserted the loose end of the rope through one of the iron hoops, hanging above on the wall. With a hard yank Ramsay was pulled upwards, stretching his body out to the point of almost having to tip-toe in order not to hang by his wrists alone. The twisted cords of hemp gnawed at his skin cutting into it, but he was so anxious at this point that he hardly heeded it. “Lord Greyjoy…what is happening? he asked nervously, shifting on his feet. Silent, Euron tied the remaining rope to another hoop on the wall and inspected his handiwork making sure that the restraints were durable.

He took a step back and gave Ramsay a look over, the expression on his face told of slight disappointment. “You really are a little shit, aren´t you?”, he shrugged his shoulders, “oh, well...I hope I won´t break you too soon”. Greyjoy started disrobing, dropping his garments in a pile on the floor. “What the fuck is this?”, Ramsay asked writhing in his restraints, eyes darting back and forth between the King and the growing pile of clothing on the ground. “I´ve heard some interesting things about you from my men. They all seem to think that you are some kind of monster; a beast who enjoys flaying and burning people alive like you did with mine at Winterfell, and…ehh”, he paused and snapped his fingers twice, “the other one...what´s it called again?”. “Moat Cailin”, Ramsay whispered, his voice trembling. “Moat Cailin. Yes! that’s it!”, Greyjoy laughed gravelly as if he had recalled something amusing. The jeering sound made Ramsay flinch. “Yet, I do have a hard time believing that you could put fear into anyone, 'cause to me, you just look like a whimpering little bitch who makes my cock hard.” Now bare and fully erect, Euron stood in front of Ramsay staring him down. A darkness had crept over his face. “So tell me, little monster...have you ever been fucked by a God?”.

Fear hit Ramsay like a hammer to the face and he was no longer able to hide his terror. “Don´t do this! Just kill me and get it over with!”. Euron stepped up close to him and Ramsay shuttered, letting out a whimper. “No, no, no! shh…shh”. The King put a hand on the top of his head stroking the soft, dark hair. “You should be honoured. Ordinarily, I don´t grant my guests such attention as I have shown you, but you are special to me, Ramsay...I´ve never met anyone accused of being more grotesque than myself”, the Kraken tapped Ramsay’s forehead with a finger, “we can´t have that rumour floating around if I am to rule all of the Seven Kingdoms, now can we? It makes me look bad”, grabbing the back of his head, Euron drew Ramsay’s face in close to his own, “and between you and me...I quite enjoy being the leading savage out there”.

Placing his hands on Ramsay's waist, he spun him around facing the stone wall, the moist rocks scraping against his stomach and chest. Greyjoy nestled his face into the curve of his neck. The hot breath on his skin made Ramsay’s muscles retract and goose-bumps break out all over his body. Euron’s hands stroked down his flanks before placing them firmly on the narrow waist, grabbing a hold of tender flesh. The King looked down taking in the lean body before him. The bastard’s skin was soft and smooth, appearing ghostly pale in the flickering light, while his ass was full and generous, curving out from beneath a beautifully sculptured back. Euron could feel the blood fill his cock and a wave of lust washing over him. Placing his member along the cleft of Ramsay’s ass he rubbed himself against his helpless victim. The body in front of him went rigid. Ramsay started sobbing. It was a pitiful sound but only resulted in Euron's cock throbbing wildly, his blood burning with a hunger he had seldom felt. “I wonder, if I will be your first”, he placed his thumb against Ramsay’s opening and forced it inside by pushing against the tight muscle safekeeping his virtue. Ramsay gasped from the pain. “Arghhhh...no!”, he cried out and jerked forward against the wall, trying to escape. “Apparently so”, the Reaver purred and withdrew the finger from his insides, leaving behind a burning sensation.

His hands grabbed a hold of the asscheeks and pulled them apart, allowing him to position himself against the taut hole. Ramsay buckled ferociously in his restraints as he felt the head of Euron’s cock pushing against his entrance. His wrists were bruised and swollen from pulling on the rope but he thrashed and squirmed desperately still, trying to fight off the invasion. With hands firmly placed on his prisoner's hips, Euron began pushing into him slowly making small advances with every thrust. He could feel Ramsay clenching around his member trying to keep him out. It was velvety and very tight in there almost painful for himself, but he was not going to make anything more comfortable for the little shit by using spittle or any other sort of easement. The only mercy Bolton could hope to obtain was if he bled on his cock, which would in all likeliness happen judging by the sweet tightness resisting his entrance. This wasn´t the first man Greyjoy had impaled on his sword but it was the one who had squirmed the most, and he sure liked it when they squirmed.

Soon Euron's face began to flush and his pace sped up as he kept pushing insistently. Ramsay was begging incoherently now, crying out every time he thrust himself against his entrance. Finally, Euron felt the head of his cock slip inside and the bastard squealed out loud. He paused for a moment, enjoying the flesh quivering and muscles twitching around him. Pulled in close against his chest, Ramsay was heaving for breath in between his tormented cries. Without warning, Euron thrust violently into his guts to the very hilt. As he impaled his enemy, he could feel the flesh resisting him at first only to submit to the brutality of the invasion moments later and the blood vessels erupting like small volcanoes against his rock hard cock.

Ramsay’s eyes bulged from his head, his mouth flew open and he let out a breathless gasp. Never in his life had he felt such savage, insufferable pain. He took one hiccupped, strangled breath and then he screamed. He screamed like he was dying. No words, just anguished, tortured sounds came out of his gaping mouth. There was no longer a thinking, scheming trickster present inside him only an animal fighting off death using pure instincts. Ramsay felt like his insides were being pulled from within and he jerked his body and cried out, but to no avail. The Salt king was holding him firmly in place and slamming into his ass with such brutality, his body was lifted in the air with each violent thrust from his hips.

Relishing the feeling of the bastard’s quivering body speared against the wall, a warm, velvety embrace of muscles and soft flesh tremoring around his cock sending waves of arousal through him, Euron was nearing his climax. A flush of heat rolled from his balls to his brain, his lower regions retracted rapidly, making his cock spasm. He sensed the smaller man becoming exhausted going limb against him, the hiccupped breath slowing down and sobs lessening as he had no more left of himself to give. Euron felt himself grow thicker, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. As the orgasm began to course through his body, he slammed Ramsay’s ass down on his cock with full force and spilled his seed inside him with a roar.

He exhaled and opened his eyes, looking at the back of the prisoner's head. Ramsay hung sniffling still impaled on his cock, hair dripping wet and his trembling body covered in sweat. As Euron pulled out, savouring the feel of warm tightness being replaced by the cool dungeon air, Ramsay let out a weak gasp. Knees giving in, he hung from the bound wrists with his head lolled back, breathing shallow and rapidly seemingly drifting into unconsciousness. The King looked down at himself. Blood covered his prick and he smiled wickedly at the sight, then took a step back inspecting his toy and the damage done to it. Holding on to the hips he had bruised the flesh there, discoloration and swelling now tarnished the milky skin. He noticed the trickle of blood that ran down the other man's legs mixing with urine and semen and felt his cock stirring again.

Euron trailed a finger down Ramsay's spinal chord but stopped himself halfway. _No. Grant him some respite..don´t want to break him too soon. There are many hours of fun left in this one still._  He picked up his clothing from the cold stone floor and paddled naked towards his chambers, whistling a cheerful tune.


	14. Hope, and what it leads to

After the assault, the merciful darkness had embraced him, but for how long he did not know. A distant sound of rustling metal awoke him making his eyes flutter weakly open. Someone had released him from his restraints, placing his broken body on the ground amongst the scattered hay. He was disoriented, and at first his mind could not recall where he was or what had taken place. With a small jerk of his leg it all came back as a wave of agony crashed through his being, making every nerve tremble from pain and the trauma he had suffered. Something horrible had happened and the evidence was there clearly enough; his wrists were red and swollen from having borne his weight, hanging from the rope Greyjoy had secured him with. Inside his bowels twisted and burned as if someone had punched him in the gut several times with a sledgehammer, ripping muscles apart and turning organs into a throbbing pulp. 

He was alone in the dungeon. A sharp smell of iron lingered and Ramsay realised it stemmed from blood seeping from inside him. He looked down seeing crusted redness streaking his inner thighs, disclosing to the world what horrors the Kraken had put him through. At the sight of the gore his eyes filled with tears and a strangled cry escaped his lips, making him immediately clutch his stomach from the shattering pain it provoked. Every breath caused him strain, every slight shift of a limb sent bolts of agony through his bowels. Small sobs turned into weak whimpers as Ramsay fought to remain as motionless as possible to lessen the pain, jabbing mercilessly away at his sore insides. 

In this moment he yearned for the sweet release of death. Ramsay looked over at the wall from where he had hung earlier when Greyjoy had...abused him. The rope was gone now, which meant that the Ironborn had been foresighted enough to predict his current state of mind and the intent that now emerged from deep within it. No matter what agonized endeavor it would have taken him to drag his mangled body over to the rope and put the noose around his neck, he would not have let himself be vanquished in the attempt. He had to escape the pain and humiliation he felt somehow. To keep on living after what had been done to him seemed impossible. Gradually, the quivering dwindled as his exhausted mind drifted back into the darkness where he was safe from beastly men who smelled of the sea. 

***

A foot on his chest nudged him awake. The guard who had forced him to undress earlier stood leaning over him, holding a bowl of food. Ramsay felt his stomach turn at the sweet smell so he ignored the man's gesture by turning his face against the wall and close his eyes, hoping that sleep would grant him an escape from the world. A hard kick to his side made him give off a startled yelp. Ramsay looked up meeting the guard’s impatient stare. The man had a thick head of grey hair and was very dark skinned which was a rare sight in the North. Someone had apparently fucked a summer islander spawning yet another piece of Ironborn filth, this one slightly more dusky than the rest but otherwise embracing the same raggedy bearings as the rest of their people. He sent the man a vindictive scowl back but said nothing. What could he really threaten someone with at this point? He would only succeed in infuriating the guard more, making his life an even greater hell than it already was. 

The guard, stripped of sympathy for Ramsay, held the bowl crookedly over his head and spilled some drops of the mushy content into his hair. “You better eat or I am to feed you myself and trust me, boy...you wouldn ́t like that one bit”. Hesitantly, Ramsay reached for the bowl with trembling hands. The guard slammed it down in his palm making chunks of stew fly all over, some of it hitting Ramsay in the face. He looked at the bowl, then at the man who now stood with arms crossed, scowling at him. Apparently he was not going to take his leave until his prisoner had ingested some sustenance. “Eat! Or I will shove it down your damned throat!”. Reluctantly, Ramsay dipped two fingers in the stew and brought them to his lips which caused his mouth to fill with warm spittle, and he threw up next to the guard's feet. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he looked with disgust into the bowl then up again at his captor. “Try again!”, the Ironborn sneered through clenched teeth on the verge of kicking him once more. Ramsay forced the food into his mouth and tasted the sickening sweetened mishmash of whatever it was. He gaged, though this time he managed to swallow without vomiting. “And again”, the guard said this time in a slightly milder tone, and his prisoner obeyed.

When he had finished the contents of the bowl, the guard left him. Ramsay felt a deep revulsion at the fact that he had been forced to submit to the Ironborn's command in order to avoid more pain than he had already suffered. He knew they only fed him in order to keep him alive longer, to prolong the torture, and had he not ingested the grub by his own accord, the guards would have force fed him; the result being the same. He would get food in his stomach one way or another, only one of those ways involved a lot more pain and humiliation than the other, and Ramsay did not think he could bare any more indignity in his lifetime. When he was sure that the silver-haired man had exited the dungeon, a few tears leaked from his eyes.

Two buckets had been brought in while he had been asleep: one filled with water and a piece of cloth, the other empty meant for him to relieve himself in. Although the agony was persistent in his mind, the level of soreness in his body had diminished a little bit. Very slowly, Ramsay crawled on his hands and knees over to the water bucket. Pain shot through him with every movement his body made but he had to be clean no matter the amount of suffering endured in the process. He had to wash off Greyjoy’s fluids and smell to keep himself from going insane. He grabbed the soaked cloth and scrubbed away at his skin until he was red and numb all over. Still, he did not feel clean, but the exhaustion from both crawling to the bucket and from the attack itself, kept him from rubbing himself to shreds. After the insufficient cleanse, Ramsay heaped some hay together and rested his head on the pile.

***

There were a clanking of metal, followed by creaking wood as the dungeon door came open. At first, he suspected that the silver-haired man had returned to cram more disgusting stew down his throat, but the sound of bare feet paddling on stone suggesting it was someone more entitled,  _someone more haughty_  than a simple guard, made him abandon the thought again. Alerted by the unusual footsteps he hurried, despite great discomfort, up into a sitting position. Greyjoy appeared in front of the cell, leaning slightly back and forth with a wine goblet in his hand. Beneath Ramsay’s skin something started to quiver. A long white tunic covered the King’s body and he wore a grave look on his face. He stood for a while swaying, staring Ramsay down with bloodshot eyes before dropping the goblet on the ground with a  _clonk!_ ; red wine spraying in all directions.

Greyjoy lifted the tunic up over his stomach. Naked underneath, he grabbed a hold of his cock and started pissing into the cell, an arched stream of urine hitting the ground a few feet from its baffled occupant. Ramsay let out a gasp and huddled up against the wall as far from the splattering fluid as he could possibly get. After what seemed like several minutes, the piss stream retracted and Euron let the tunic fall back down covering his prick. He used a key hanging from around his neck to unlock the door and staggered inside the cell. Standing in front of him, the King´s presence made Ramsay vomit again. He looked up and saw the monster smiling down at him. “If there is one thing, we men of the sea enjoy above all else...it's mead and the touch of a hefty woman”. Ramsay remained quiet in the corner, eyeing him warily. Greyjoy’s voice turned soft and teasing, “sometimes the touch of another man”. Panic hit Ramsay like a splash of icy water in the face, making him babble a few unintelligible words at his captor who simply returned them with a smirk. He could not grasp that the horrendous misdeed still poking daggers into his guts, was about to happen all over again. Unconsciously, his fingernails started scraping against the stones behind him as if he could escape by digging through the wall. _Surely I will die from the pain! He can not do this to me again! He can not, he ca…_

Euron's face split into a grin. “ _Ahh ha ha haaaah!!!"_ , he roared and pointed his finger in Ramsay’s face, “do not worry, little Lord! You are not going to get fucked tonight”, he lifted his hand and held it to his chest, “I promise”, his smile was crooked, “now, make room”. He threw himself down in the hay next to Ramsay, who was trying his best to avoid any form of bodily contact with his captor by pressing his backside up against the wall behind. A few distressing moments of silence passed between them, during which Ramsay expected an attack at any second. He felt more hatred towards the King than he had ever accumulated against any other person in his life, including Roose. His mind was a mess of anger and fear, wanting to both kill and cower at the same time. “Tell me...are you happy here, Ramsay?” Greyjoy asked in a mocking tone. Obviously, the question was as absurd as it was rhetorical, and Ramsay did not give a reply neither. He wanted nothing more than to die at this point; to escape from the clutches of the monster beside him and the memory of what he had done. Even if his physical scars healed, there would always be that feeling of heavy, rapid breaths on his neck and rough hands grabbing his waist. There was no forgetting that, he knew. Not Ever. 

Euron brought a hand to his cheek petting it, and Ramsay flinched in response. Grabbing a hold of his wrist, he pulled him into a spooning embrace. No longer possessing the strength to protest, Ramsay went rigid, staring at the wall instead. Perhaps the King would loose interest or pass out from the drink if he could only manage to remain still for long enough and not indulge in his sick game. Either way he did not have a choice besides remaining passive; he was too weak to fight him off. A shiver ran down his spine as he felt Euron ́s tunic touching him, and his expression turned into one of pure disgust, feeling the other man drawing him closer from behind. He wanted to scream, kick and drive an axe through his skull, but he knew killing Greyjoy was nothing more than wishful thinking. Resisting him would only result in more pain coming his way, so instead he lay still, biting his lower lip and clenching his eyes shut, bracing himself for whatever the sadist would come up with next. He almost fully panicked when the feel of what could only be Euron’s hard cock, separated from his own skin by a mere layer of cloth, strained against his ass. Thankfully, the King seemed not to make any further advances towards him, and after a few horrendous minutes the poking feeling on his rear subsided. A light snore disclosed that Euron had fallen asleep.

They lay together for what seemed like hours, spooned in an awkward embrace. Ramsay was about to drift off himself when his eyes glanced over at the cell door, and a rush of adrenaline flooded through his body, making him twitch. It wasn't much but the gap was there. Euron had forgotten to close the door behind him when he entered the cell pissed out of his skull. The large man's snoring continued on; the vibrating, rattling noise was constant and uninterrupted by Ramsay's stir. Had he been any other, Ramsay would have tried to strangle him in his sleep, but the King was simply too strong to overpower even when intoxicated. An attack would achieve nothing except to bring the man's wrath down on him again, so he had to come up with another way to take advantage of the unexpected opportunity that had arisen.

Greyjoy and his cluster of stinking filth could not have overrun the castle many days or weeks ago, otherwise Ramsay would most surely have heard about it at Winterfell. The Dreadfort was a major fortress with lots of rooms and hallways, and it also contained several hidden crawlspaces leading to other places within the walls and to locations outside. The Ironborn, in the limited amount of time they had occupied the castle, most likely had not located all (if any) of the hidden exits. Ramsay knew all of the Dreadfort's secrets intimately, having spent countless hours as a child hiding in its narrow tunnels, spying on or ambushing people; using the crawlspaces as convenient tools in the little games he liked to play with his blissfully unaware prey. Any respectable noble family had one or two hidden exits, but the Bolton family had several. Ramsay's ancestors had known from the time the Dreadfort was constructed, that their brutal rule was not well received by all, and they had therefor - very wisely - made preparations for the day, when their sinful past would finally catch up with them and force them to flee for their lives.

Greyjoy snored louder and tightened his bear grip around Ramsay's torso. Though trying his best to remain calm, the discomfort and rage he felt from having his rapist wheezing behind him was making stomach acid rise in his throat, and Ramsay had to struggle not to throw up again. He squirmed a little. Euron shifted in his sleep, releasing the grip on Ramsay and rolled over on his back instead. The snoring stopped.  _Shit_.

 _Drip._ A condensed drop of water fell from the ceiling. Ramsay held his breath. The King coughed once, then started snoring again this time louder and more nasal than before. Ramsay turned his head carefully, sneaking a peek at Greyjoy. The large man had folded his hands on his chest and looked to be sound asleep. _Please, let him be a heavy sleeper_. An opportunity like it might not arise again and he had to move quickly. There was no time to think a plan through in details. In the hallway behind the door, a crawl space had been built into the wall. He was weakened, unarmed, and if the guards were close by on the other side, he wouldn´t stand a chance against them. No matter the outcome he wasn't going back in the cell with Greyjoy, and he only hoped that if it came down to it, he would at least be able to provoke one of the soldiers into killing him before being re-captured.

The door leading to the hallway and potential freedom seemed miles away. Ramsay raised himself on his elbows keeping eyes fixed on the Reaper’s face, searching for any indication that the man was about to stir. Careful not to make a sound, he raised his knees up to his chest. It hurt his abdomen horribly and he clenched his teeth from the strain. His guts still felt liquefied after what must have been more than a day’s time since the unspeakable assault. Grabbing the key from around Greyjoy's neck posed too large a risk; he had to sneak out of the cell and simply hope that Euron would not wake up before he had made it into the crawl space. Very slowly Ramsay got into a sitting position. Putting one foot under his rear, he had the leverage to lift himself up from the ground. The effort caused every nerve ending in his body from the chest down to protest. He froze, sending a nervous glance in the Kraken’s direction. The large man remained motionless, except for the rhythmic raising and lowering of his chest. Ramsay stood up straight, hoping that his quivering legs wouldn ́t betray him by either collapsing under him or his knees popping a sound. As it turned out, it was an advantage being naked; there was no leather or wool to rub against itself, giving away any disastrous noise.

With faint and prudent steps, Ramsay tip-toed across the stone floor.  _Just a few more steps_ _._ He had never before felt such desperate need to cling onto hope. It was not more than twenty paces or so, but every last one of those steps seemed like a mile travelled in enemy territory, dodging arrows and spears being chucked at him. When he was halfway across the cell, Ramsay turned his head and looked back at Greyjoy who made no indication of being awoken from his slumber. He counted the steps,  _Eight, seven and six, five, four._..He could almost touch the bars. The possibility of freedom and a chance at life awaited him on the other side. Three and two more. His hand reached out for the door. Warily, he gripped the iron bars and slowly advanced the gap. The door creaked a little, but he had anticipated that. He had to fight the urge to not just fling it open, slam it and run. If the Kraken stirred now, Ramsay would be right back in the cell within seconds, facing the consequences for the attempted escape, and he had come too far now to let panic ruin it all. After a few more seconds, his patience paid off and he could slip through the door. Ramsay turned and slid across the dungeon towards the door leading to the hallway. It was crafted from wood and had solid iron hinges nailed into it, but fortunately it turned out to make less noise than the cell door when opened. He shot the snoring Reaper one last glance, before sticking his head out through the opening and sneaking a peek into the hallway.

It was empty. Ramsay let out an inaudible sigh. He was surprised and relieved to find no guards were stationed outside the dungeon, but he figured the reason for it was very simple. Either Greyjoy did not want his men to know the details of his perverted nature or he thought escape from the dungeon was impossible. Perhaps it was both those things. Men's laughter could be heard somewhere up above and he did not have time to linger on the thought. No longer moving with the same amount of precaution, he hurried towards the crawl space at the end of the hallway. He quickly located the fissures in the wall, holding in place the loose rocks which worked as a cover for the tunnel. Ramsay started dragging out the hand-sized stones one by one, and placing them gently on the ground, careful not to pile them together. There was no reason to make it obvious to the Ironborn where he had exited, and if he had any chance of an escape it was crucial that he got a good head start.

Finally, from behind the fake wall, a wooden plank emerged. It was painted dark and could in passing resemble the stone wall well enough. The plank was meant to serve as camouflage for the exit once he had slipped through it. This particular crawl space led to the southern castle wall. From there, a net of escape routes led into the forest beyond and to other locations within the castle. The tunnels were all build solid and durable, better than the one at Winterfell had been. His father had made sure that they were prepared for even the most unlikely occurrences. Just as murder, theft and betrayal had not been beneath the now departed Lord Bolton, so had running for his life been neither. Ramsay was naked and freezing, but he hoped that there might still be some clothing left at the end of the tunnel; his life depended on it. The garments were meant for disguising the Lords of the Dreadfort as commoners to better pass through the area without drawing attention to themselves in case the need for escape ever arose, and Roose really had been prepared for anything (except of course, his own son). 

Despite the trauma he had suffered, Ramsay no longer thought of death as the only way out of his imprisonment. Now, that the opportunity had arisen, survival seemed deeply embedded within him, so he would have to deal with his inner hurt later. The unlocked door had provided hope, and Ramsay felt like laughing out loud from the exhilaration of the moment; freedom or death was waiting for him on the other side of the Dreadfort's walls, but no matter which one he ended up meeting, it was still a better fate than awaited him in the dungeon. He was so caught up in the digging, lost his own thoughts that he had not noticed a figure had slipped up behind him.

A strong arm curled itself around his neck, pulling him backwards. Ramsay gave a startled yelp and writhed against the man holding him firmly in place. It was the Lord Reaper, suddenly appearing quite sober. A raspy voice whispered teasingly in his ear, making Ramsay's blood freeze in his veins. “I never grow tired of this game. Now! let ́s find out how much of my cock you can take, before I split you in two”. With his arm wrapped around Ramsay's throat in a chokehold, Euron dragged him back towards the dungeon. Ramsay fought and screamed desperately like a man being forced towards certain death. He bit down hard on the King's forearm, which earned him a punch to the stomach. Spinning him around, Euron grabbed Ramsay by the hair, then hauled him across the floor with his feet kicking and slipping on the stones and his body twisting frantically to pry himself loose from the hold.

Inside the cell, Ramsay was thrown to the floor. Immediately he scurried into the corner and cowered there, staring at Euron with wild eyes. “Please don ́t do this, my Lord! I ́m sorry! I ́m sorry! Please!”, he made small hiccupped breaths in between whimpers, “I could give you important information if you would only spare me from this!” The Kraken grinned wickedly and pulled the tunic over his head, revealing that his cock had grown hard from the display of desperation his prisoner was putting on. “ **NO!** ”, Ramsay screamed. Greyjoy caught a hold of his ankle and dragged him to the middle of the cell. Even though he was fighting like a wild animal, Euron handled his prisoner with such ease as if he was nothing more than a toddler throwing a tantrum. “I like it when you fight me; it makes it all the more sweet”. His fingers closed around Ramsay's throat, squeezing tightly and making the smaller man gasp and claw at the hand cutting off his air supply. Euron used his other arm to wrap himself around Ramsay's left leg, pulling the thigh up along his side and placing himself between his quivering legs. 

While studying his victim's face intently, Euron thrust into the tight, swollen hole with merciless force. A half choked shriek escaped Ramsay's throat still being throttled by Euron's hand. His body buckled and writhed wildly from the invasion. It was without comparison the most horrendous pain he had ever experienced, and he was certain that he was about to be fucked to death. His enemy was pounding away at his shredded, abused insides without care or concern, his balls smacking painfully against his own. The King’s hips launched with such ferocity his only purpose seemed to be inflicting as much pain as possible. Euron loosened his grip on Ramsay's throat a little so he would not accidentally choke him to death in his ecstasy. The bastard's eyes were huge and wet with tears and stared back at him with such delicious fear in them. He had to slow down not to cum; it was too soon, and he wanted to play some more before letting the bastard have recess. Gasping and dizzy from the shortness of oxygen to his lungs and brain, Ramsay closed his eyes and begged for death to take him. Just as he thought his stomach would burst open from the pounding, the King stopped moving inside him. 

“Look at me” Euron commanded. Ramsay opened his eyes too scared out of his mind to disobey him. “Please, no more...”, his voice weak and quivering, “I..ca... can ́t...can ́t...take anymore...”. Greyjoy removed the cock from his insides and Ramsay broke down crying. The hand on his throat slid to his face, stroking it and gently wiping the tears from his cheeks. A look of pity settled on Euron's face. “ _Shh_ , _shh..._ it ́s alright”, his voice soft and soothing. He swept the back of his victim's head into his hand, then pushed his face gently against his chest. He could feel the hiccuped breaths against his skin, the body trembling from exhaustion and terror. “ _Shh_... I won ́t hurt you anymore, you ́ve had enough I see”, he stroked Ramsay’s hair with a lover’s appeasing comfort, “don ́t cry”

The sudden, unexpected show of affection made all the emotions caused by trauma Ramsay had suffered both in the past and present break through what little defence he had left and flow to the surface. He went limp in his enemy's arms and wept into his chest, soaking the King’s skin with his tears. Unconsciously, he clung his arms around the larger man's torso like a frightened child would its mother. They lay for several minutes embraced without speaking until Ramsay's breath had calmed down and his crying was reduced to small whimpers. A hand swept under his chin, and he looked up into dark-blue eyes emitting sadness and regret. “Ramsay”, Euron said softly, “You really are quite...”, pause, "...gullible, aren ́t you?”. His heart stopped as Euron ́s face morphed back into the dreaded shark ́s grin.

Seizing Ramsay by the waist, Euron flipped him onto his stomach and pulled his ass in the air. Granting his victim no time to prepare, he forced himself inside the smaller man with a roar. Ramsay let out a howl of pain and tried desperately to scramble forward and away from the cock skewering him, but was prevented from doing so by Euron's firm grip on his hips. Inside, his guts felt as if they were being ripped apart by the enemy's cock; its length covered in thorns, shredding off layers of tissue with each brutal thrust. With one hand snaked in his hair, the King was slapping Ramsay's ass with the other making the humiliation total. At one point he seemed to get bored of it, and started hitting him in the kidneys instead; not hard enough to cause permanent damage, but just enough to make Ramsay squirm and causing his pelvic muscles to clench reflexively around his cock.

Euron felt himself nearing his climax; that sweet little tingle in the balls telling him that he was ready to shoot off his load. His fingers settled around Ramsay's throat instead, squeezing hard. The smaller man gasped, scratching at his hands. It sent jolts of pleasure through the King’s body, feeling the bastard impaled on his cock with his back arched, fighting for dear life. To the sweet sound of Ramsay gasping for air caused by the near crushing of his windpipe, Euron came long and hard, pulsating cascades of seed deep inside him. Releasing the now unconscious Ramsay from his chokehold, the Kraken watched as the broken body slumped forward into the hay. He put two fingers to Ramsay's neck, feeling his pulse.  _Still alive, good. I'm not done with you yet...not by a long shot._

 


	15. Hall of Memory Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay is incarcerated at the Dreadfort, a prisoner of Euron Greyjoy. The King has not been a kind host and times have been tough. With no prospect of escaping Greyjoy's assaults, Ramsay becomes more and more desperate to end his own life. Unfortunately for him destiny seems to disagree with his plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first part of a chapter that turned out a whole lot more comprehensive than initially planned. The idea of Greyjoy using Roose against our "hero" was pitched to me by Java1. I really liked it and thought it would make an interesting mindfuck for Ramsay to deal with on top of all that pain and suffering he has already been through. Thank you once again, Java1! This is for you :)

_Accept your fate_. A voice like thin ice breaking echoed through his mind. It seemed as though a thousand years had passed since his father's ghost appeared in his dreams, bestowing its dark predictions for the grim future upon him. The Crow’s eye had been an insignificant speck in a vast sea of enemies then, an amusing anecdote roaming the southern seas and nothing more. Of no threat to Ramsay’s existence or dominion, he had been unworthy of note. But that was then and this was now. Everything had changed the moment Euron Greyjoy had entered his life, bringing with him a world where only misery thrived, madness prevailed and men did things to other men they shouldn’t. Roose had not appeared before him since that day in the woods and Ramsay felt grateful for it. In his current condition nothing seemed more unbearable than the thought of his late father being a witness to his humiliation.

He lay huddled in a corner staring blankly into the stonewall ahead. The guards had given him a blanket to wrap himself in, presumably to keep him from catching disease exposed as he was to the cold, moist air of the dungeon. At first he had refused to wear it, tossing it to the side and hoping to fall ill so that death would spare him from any further perversions Greyjoy might bestow upon him. At least by denying his captors the pleasure of ending his life themselves he could regain some control over his destiny; besides giving the bastards a small dose of defiance was really all there was left for him to hope for now. When the Ironborn had found the blanket tossed aside they had chained him to the wall with his arms above his head. Wrapped up in the woollen cocoon he sat for half a day, a defenseless fly trapped in an itchy spiderweb, before he finally gave in to their demands. In exchange for being released from his bonds he embraced the unwanted salvage without further resistance; a little freedom was in the end better than no freedom at all.

 

After that little incident, a guard was present in the dungeon at all times to prevent Ramsay from hanging himself with the blanket. Usually they kept out of sight, though every now and then one of the men would randomly appear before the cell, checking to see if he had done anything that could be deemed as rebellious. The Ironborn seemed intent on keeping him alive, but for what purpose other than satisfying the King's sickening needs he did not know. They kept a close watch on his intake of food and water as well, making sure he didn't starve himself or dehydrate. Thrice a day they brought him meals and stood watch until he had consumed every single bite. Ramsay overturned the first couple of bowls he was given, spilling the grub on the dirty floor. Despite his intention to remain defiant, the hunger strike had come to an abrupt end when the silver haired man, who went by the name of Grey Lorren, came storming into the cell with an expression of pure, unbridled fury on his dark hued face. "Little shit! What did I bloody tell ya!?!"

Seizing Ramsay around the jaw with one hand, Lorren began stuffing stew into his mouth with the other, then proceeded to pinch his nose shut until he was forced to swallow the thick, spoiled mash. He coughed and spluttered through the fingers covering his mouth, tears coursing down his cheeks as the man relentlessly crammed food into his face. The involuntary feeding continued on one wretched mouthful at a time until the bowl was empty. When it was done, Grey Lorren grabbed him by the hair and dragged him over to the water-bucket, forcing his face over the rim of it. “Look at you now, flayer", the guard hissed, "do you like what you see?". As Ramsay caught sight of his reflection in the water, a sense of discouragement filled his being. The change in his appearance was so overwhelming he hardly recognized the man staring back at him from the bucket. Defeat shone from his hollow eyes, grey lifeless orbits in a ghostly pale face. The hair was tousled and dirty, while a shadow of stubble covered his jaw adding to an overall tattered image. His old tidy self was gone now, replaced by some creature that resembled a scruffy, drowned rat. Grey Lorren held him in place for a good long while, making sure that Ramsay had time to take in every single aspect of his own face before dunking his head underwater and pulling it back up. “Murdering bastard, you deserve everything that's coming to you!”, he sneered into his soaked face, then pushed him onto the floor. Ramsay crawled back into his corner and faced the wall once again.

There were three men guarding him. None of them made an effort to hide their resentment towards Ramsay, though Grey Lorren seemed to harbour more hatred than the other two combined. The dark-skinned man was clearly the one in charge and also the brightest of the lot, but that wasn't saying much. Besides him there were Hobbs, a large toad-like creature and an equally sized brute named Owen. Both men had been born without the burden of intellect, and was hardly able to speak and take a piss at the same time. They rarely spoke to him, except to give orders or uttering the occasional taunt, yet Ramsay didn´t mind their reticence at all. In fact, silence was the one thing he came close to appreciate in the hell that now made up his life. Hobbs would stay out of sight most of the time, breathing heavily from his place somewhere in the dungeon. Every half hour or so, he would shuffle over to the cell to see if his prisoner was still alive then return to his post, wheezing and grunting like an overfed boar. The other guard, Owen, stayed in the shadows as well, silent and concealed. Were it not for the odd fart that rung out every now and then, Ramsay might have thought he occupied the space by himself.

It had been two days, since Greyjoy had been to the dungeons. Although it was a relief not to see his ghastly face or be the subject of his lust, Ramsay could not let go of the anxiety the man had put in him. Every few hours when the guards rotated he woke with a jolt, as the clanging of metal hinges announced someone was either entering or leaving the room. His heart pounded in his chest like a drum and the cell began spinning before his eyes when he imagined the footsteps descending down the stairs belonged to the Reaper, back to take one more greedy bite out of his shredded soul. His body had healed a little, but he still felt a throb in his gut every time he shifted himself into a new position on the ground. There were traces of blood in the bucket when he relieved himself, an atrocious reminder of the rapes and the likely irreparable damage done to his insides. He doubted that neither his body nor spirit could endure another attack. His colon would surely burst, killing him in the most disgraced manner imaginable or he would go mad from the torment itself. Even though he had accepted days ago that he was going to meet his end by the hands of one enemy or the other, Ramsay could not think of a more horrible fate than being molested to death, except of course to remain alive and being molested ad infinitum.

He had almost drifted off to sleep when someone kicked a boot hard against the bars, making him jerk in surprise. Grey Lorren opened the cell door and stepped inside, carrying a fresh bucket of water and the old set of clothing the three guards had so brutally stripped him off a few days earlier when life had been worth living. “Get yourself cleaned and put that on”, he ordered, dropping the clothes next to Ramsay. The Ironborn stood back scowling at him as he picked up a soaked cloth from the bucket. Turning his back on the man's uncomfortable stare he began scrubbing his body and face free from dirt, then proceeded to put on the garments. "Faster boy!", Lorren sneered impatiently and kicked him hard in the ass, making Ramsay give of a loud, agonized yelp. "Bastard!" he muttered under his breath but picked up the pace as instructed. With grey eyes shooting daggers at the wall in front of him, Ramsay dressed himself as quickly as his shredded gut allowed.

Fully clothed he felt slightly less vulnerable than before, which was a welcome adjustment although he of course knew that all the garments provided him with was a false sense of comfort and nothing more; no layer of wool or leather would be able to stop neither an axe nor the Salt King's groping hands. Ramsay adjusted his doublet and turned towards Lorren. Suddenly, his brain fired off a warning signal and a drop of angsty sweat trickled down his temple. _Is it...today?_   _my execution?_ Why else would the Ironborn clean him up and put him back in his clothes if not to lead him to trial and ultimately his death. Although he longed for release, he still felt a growing sense of unease, contemplating the horrendous method of execution Greyjoy had come up with. If only it were the chopping block or the rope he would welcome death like a long lost friend, with arms wide open and a bittersweet smile on his face. It would be a good end, quick and painless, but deep down he knew that neither of those options were avaliable to him. Most likely his departure from the world would involve lots of screams and tears and begging. So much begging.

"You have to wear this", Lorren pulled a piece of black cloth from his back pocket, “hold still”. With the blindfold stretched out between his hands, he approached Ramsay slowly and deeply focused as if cornering a rabbit trying to evade capture. "Why?", the prospect of being blindfolded made Ramsay even more nervous and he took a step backwards. "I don´t understand, wh...", his sentence was cut off, as a hand smacked him hard across the face. "You don´t _need_ to understand, bastard!", the Ironborn sneered in a low voice, "just do as you are told, and hold fucking still!". Spinning him around, Lorren tied the cloth tightly over his eyes, blocking out all light. "Let´s go", he growled. Grabbing his prisoner by the upper arm he dragged him forth, out of the dungeon and into the hallway.


	16. Hall of Memory Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After having suffered the Crow's Eye's abuse for several days on end, Ramsay is a wreck. Although he wants to die at this point, he's still very anxious about what kind of twisted end Greyjoy has planned for him. One night he is brought out of the dungeon and led to another part of the castle. Is Ramsay heading towards his execution or to some other horrible fate?

Their footsteps echoed through the hollow corridor like un-rhythmic drumbeats. Ramsay limped hurriedly along striving to keep up with Grey Lorren; the rough-mannered guard seemingly indifferent to the fact that his prisoner was injured and blind as a bat. The air became cooler and less stale as they neared the staircase, making goose bumps spread across Ramsay's already cold sweating skin. He had no idea where they were going and could not stop himself from fearing the worst. A gruesome death or another soul-shattering rape...perhaps it would be both, but in which order? He shuddered at the thought and tried to clear his mind of the nasty images now taking form in it.

With a firm grip on his arm, Lorren dragged Ramsay up the stairs. On the first step he stumbled and hit his knee against the stone hard enough to make him wince. "Get up!", the Ironborn ordered, dragging Ramsay along without slowing down his pace. At the top of the stairs they stopped, then came the sound of rustling keys. As the door to the outside world opened with a slight squeak Ramsay felt a cool breeze caressing his skin. Locked up in the cell for days he had inhaled nothing but foul, moist air making him feel as if he were slowly drowning with each strained breath. He haltered and breathed in deeply, savouring the moment. A few soft flakes of snow landed gently on his face, soaking into the skin as it absorbed his warmth. Tears filled his eyes behind the blindfold. _No matter how it all ends...let it happen swiftly_. Fingers dug into his flesh and with a hard yank he was pulled forward. "Move it, bastard! Your Lord awaits”

The powdered snow beneath his boots creaked with each tottering step. He could sense they were moving across the courtyard in an eastern direction away from the gates. "Where are you taking me?", he asked, voice slightly trembling. Lorren, unresponsive to the question cleared his throat and picked up the pace. A few minutes later they came to a halt again and another door opened. The guard led him through and shut the door behind them. A hollow echo resonated downwards, disclosing they were about to descend into a cellar. Ramsay caught a whiff of something rancid arising from the depths, a faint but unmistakable smell of rot and ammonia. _No...no..._

The steps were moist and slippery. At one point he almost lost his footing and would surely have stumbled down the staircase were it not for the guard's firm grip on his arm. At the bottom of the stairs they took a left down a narrow corridor leaving any further speculations of their final destination pointless. The prospect of what horrors awaited him in the room Lorren was leading him to, caused Ramsay's legs to feel gelatinized and made it even harder to move with a shred of dignity. The crouched over, faltering walk he was reduced to reminded him of a wounded dog  _or... or Reek_. He straightened his back a little and put on the bravest face he could muster. They reached the end of the hallway where a door swung open before them with a loud groan.

A hostile shove in the back made him tumble headfirst into the room, issuing a startled grunt. Before landing flat on his stomach, Ramsay managed to get his hands up in front of his face, saving nose and teeth from being shattered against the floorboards. "You damned cunt", he mumbled under his breath as Lorren's hand closed around his upper arm, pulling him back on his feet. Ramsay was led across the room where he was then pushed hard onto a chair. As his sore ass connected with the wood he grimaced, letting out a hiss of pain. “Thank you, Lorren". Greyjoy's coarse voice sounded far to close to his ear. "Captain". The guard turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door behind him with a dull thunk! Footsteps faded away up the staircase, an eerie silence settling over the chamber instead.

The trophy room had been his family's sanctuary for hundreds of years, a free space where the Lords could bask in memories of past feats and conquered enemies. It was the pride of his kin and a sight unlike any other hall within the castle to behold. In each of the four corners stood a Bolton cross from where countless screams of anguish and despair had been extracted through generations by Ramsay and his forbearers. A collection of hides from more than a hundred men and a few women adorned the walls like macabre ornaments. Only the most prestigious of their kills had earned a spot in the hall, Lords, rebellion leaders or the like, yet the crown of the collection were three former northern Kings; Starks who had been handed over to his kin for either their treason or disobedience towards the Targaryen regime.

Though rumors of the room's existence and its gruesome contents still thrived in the North, only a handful of living men knew of its exact location within the Dreadfort. Before Eddard Stark became Warden of the North, the Boltons had benefitted quite well from tales of their brutality. It kept their tenant farmers humble and their rivals from moving in on their turf. As it had not surprisingly proved true, the fear alone of feeling the knife was a highly effective weapon against men contemplating a rebellion. Unfortunately, Lord Stark had not approved of the rumors being whispered far and wide about halls filled with human skins and Roose had felt it necessary to put a pin in as much of the gossip concerning their collection of horrors as he possibly could.

Ramsay inhaled deeply but regretted it instantly as a heavy, revolting odour hit his nose, making him retch. _What in the seven hells is that?_ Something had surely died and begun to rot not far away from him. He lifted his hand to remove the blindfold. “No, no, leave it on. We don´t want to spoil the surprise, do we?”, the King chortled, "It will be glorious, I promise you". _Shink! Shink! Shink!_ Behind Ramsay, the unmistakeable sound of a knife blade grinding against butcher's steel rang out. _By the Gods not that...anything but that_. His fingers tightened around the arm rest making the wood creak.

 _Shink! Shink! Shink!_ The noise finally ceased. Ramsay held his breath, calming himself as best he could. A gasp escaped his lips as cold steel was pressed against the back of his neck. "I've missed you terribly", a jaunty voice above him purred, "all those lonely nights spent apart has proved such a trial for me”. He felt the blade trailing down his spine, grazing each vertebra with its tip. “I wonder...did you miss me as well?" Ramsay remained silent, struggling to keep the panic that had crept into his very marrow from taking control. The King removed the blade from Ramsay’s back. "Well, that just hurts my feelings! And after all I have done for you... clothed you, fed you, kept you alive, even though I ought not have done so".

He leaned forward, bringing his face close to his captive's neck. With one deep intake of breath he inhaled his scent, making Ramsay shiver in disgust. "My men want you dead, you know", Greyjoy's whisper tickled his ear, "sooner rather than later and in a way that is, ehh…how should I put this without unsettling you?", he sighed, then clicked his tongue in false compassion, " _Excruciatingly. Fuckin'. Painful_ ". A chill ran down Ramsay's spine and he squirmed in his seat. The tip of the knife scraped lightly against his cheek circling the skin without breaking it. "Unfortunately, I'm no good with a blade; skinned a couple of deer in my life but it turned out messy every time. Perhaps _you_ can lend me some advice, huh? Let me in on the family secret?", Ramsay winched as the knife grazed the skin behind his ear, drawing a little blood. "Oh no, would you look at that? How clumsy of me"

A wave of dizziness swept over him, clouding his mind. The unoriginality of the Islanders revenge could almost have been deemed an insult if it were not so damned horrifying. Though Ramsay had expected them to come up with something gruesome, he had not contemplated it would involve using his own methods against him. The prospect of being skinned alive made his heart pound in his chest and his throat now felt tight allowing him only short, shallow breaths. _This is all wrong! This is not the way it is supposed to end! NO you damned bastard!_ Abruptly, his thoughts were swept away and the tremors subsided.

A primitive mechanism in his brain sparked to life, eliciting a defensive response to the threat against his life. Through his veins coursed a flush of heat, making muscles tense up and his teeth grind against each other. The savage, furious beast he knew all to well came crawling out its cave from deep within, teeth sharp and bared, ready to kill. _If my life is to end, I will die fighting this cursed cunt till my last drawn breath_. The fear he had felt but a moment ago seemed to have receded concurrent with his rage rising. Greyjoy might kill him for it, but he was going to die anyhow no matter the amount of begging he did or how many of the man’s depraved demands he agreed to. At the moment he was free from restraints but might not remain so for much longer. No matter what move he ended up making had to be made soon. It might be his last chance to kick Greyjoy's perfect teeth through the back of his skull, and he wasn’t about to let an opportunity like that pass him by. Having nothing left to loose, Ramsay prepared himself for a fight to the death. Lifting a hand to his face, he snatched off the blindfold, “You fuckin’ deviant bastard!”, he snarled, “Suck cock in hel…”

"Aaaahhh!!", Ramsay cried out in surprise and drew himself rearwards, hitting his head against the backrest with great force. The rage that had nearly driven him to a suicidal attack dissolved as quickly as it had arisen. His eyes became wide with terror and his jaw slacked open as he fought to comprehend the scene unfolding before him. On the opposite side of a small dining table his father had been placed in a chair, slumped against the backrest. Blackish-green splotches painted with red streaks like veins in morbid marble covered the visible parts of the corpse. The decay had been decelerated from him being buried in ground for the past few months, but Roose was evidently still far along in the putrefaction process. Thankfully, he was half-way frozen which meant he had been dug up recently, and that the stench exuding from his rotting flesh was not as foul as it potentially could have been.

He felt the Kraken's breath hot on his ear. "Surprise!", he whispered teasingly, "say hello to your father, Ramsay". Fingers caressed the back of his neck, another hand stroked the tussled strands of his hair. All coherent thought had left Ramsay's mind and he starred dumbfounded at his dead Sire, hardly taking heed of Euron's awkward touch. Although his father's ghost had rattled him quite a bit when appearing uninvited in his dream, seeing his actual corpse seated before him made former feelings of dismay fade away in comparison. “Come on! don´t be rude, sweetheart! Say hello”, Greyjoy chuckled, “he won´t bite…will you, Lord Bolton?”. The corpse remained slouched in its seat jaw hanging slack, the cloudy eyes staring at nothing. Wrapping his arms around his captive's neck the King let out a sigh. "What a reunion, huh? Such joy it brings me to see you two together again. Sure, ol' Roose here is not much of a talker, but we got along fine regardless...in the end, silence suits most men", he gave Ramsay’s shoulders a tight squeeze then slapped them hard making him jump in his seat, “Now! I do have a few questions for you and you really should consider answering them truthfully, if you do not...I might just take offence”

Euron strolled around the dining table and sat down in a chair next to the cadaver, seemingly not to mind neither its presence nor stench. Leaning back in the seat his teeth flashed bright in a sly smile. He looked from Ramsay to the dead man by his side, then back again. "You know? I don´t really see the resemblance. Are you sure that, err...", Ramsay swallowed and blinked a few times. "...I mean do you even know if you are his son? Your mother could have been a whore, willing to jump on top any cock in Westeros for a loaf of bread”, a touch of malice had crept into Greyjoy's otherwise chipper voice as he searched his captive’s face intently to find out whether or not there were any truth to his vile words. Bowing his head, Ramsay averted his inquiring gaze, "you didn’t know your mother, did you Ramsay?" The King said, relishing his discomfort. Sitting for a long while in silence watching Ramsay staring into the floorboards he finally ceased his cruel endeavour. “Alright, fine fine…no more of that”.

He motioned towards the hides that hung from the wall covering every stone of the wide surface. "This is magnificent by the way...you flayers sure do know how to make a room cosy", he looked around, admiring the trophies. “Rumour has it, a few Starks hangs from these walls, is that true?". Ramsay nodded his head reluctantly which made the Reaper burst into laughter. "By the old gods themselves, Lord Bolton! What a fine collection indeed! It´s good there are still some cunts around worth the piss of conserving!". _Do something, boy! Protect your damn honour!_ Hesitantly, he looked up at the cadaver. Its dead eyes was glaring at him from across the table sending his heartbeat into a frenzy. Ramsay quickly lowered his gaze again. _Go away Father_.

After his premature demise, Roose had been brought back to the Dreadfort for burial. It had not mattered to Ramsay where the body was laid to rest or even if it was buried at all, but being the new Lord Bolton called for certain appearances to be kept so he decided to give his predecessor a traditional deposit despite of. Had the northern nobles known he was the one who had disposed of his father it would be harder, if not impossible to convince them to join his ranks. He had to honor the tradition of burying dead Lords within the homestead so as to not raise suspicion toward his sudden rise to power and the methods that got him there. It had seemed a good idea at the time, but now that Roose sat before him staring him down with his cloudy, condemning eyes, Ramsay wished strongly he had just burned the body instead.

"Perhaps I should start a collection of my own, now that I am Lord of this heap of dung. It seems only fitting, does it not?" The King sought eye contact, but Ramsay kept staring at the floor avoiding him. "Ramsay, look at me!", he ordered, receiving no response. Reaching within his ropes, Greyjoy produced the long, thin-bladed knife he had scraped against Ramsay’s spine earlier and slammed it down on the table, making his prisoner jump in his seat and regain his attention. “This conversation is started to get a little one sided, but that is fine...I understand; you are baffled by my generosity". His facial expression had turned deadpan. "Since you do seem a little distracted today I´ll get straight to it. A thought has been nagging at me lately and I can no longer stand the suspense...how did you escape Winterfell?”

Was there any reason to lie at this point? Anything to gain by it? The rotting corpse proved a major distraction, making it near impossible for him to conjure up any clever schemes or tricks even if he wanted to. Perhaps it was a better strategy to simply tell the truth rather than get caught lying and having to face the consequences for it. He decided to play along at least for a while. "Through an underground tunnel leading to the forest beyond. After that I travelled by foot" One of the monster's eyes gave a discrete twitch. "Aha. And how many of these tunnels are there?" _They do want to take Winterfell after all the greedy bastards. How splendid! It will surely end in your demise, Squid, and the world will be rid off its vilest piece of filth_. Who could have known telling the truth had its advantages? Greyjoy seemed so bent on dismantling his own rule, that Ramsay almost laughed out loud from the absurdness of his overconfident plan. Yet, as imbecilic as it were it had opened the door for him to negotiate some terms of his own; the King wanted information from him and he sure as hell wasn’t giving it up for free.

"Are you going to kill me?", he gave the Kraken a somber look, "’cause if you are, just get on with it! Your little games are becoming such a bore". Euron ran a finger across his upper lip, stroking his beard. "How many tunnels, Lord Bolton?", he repeated, unaffected by the impudent remarks, "mind you, it is in your best interest to provide me with an answer" Ramsay looked from the King to his father, the sight made the bile rise in his throat. “What is the point of me telling you anything if I am to end up like him?” he nodded towards the corpse, “you need to give me something in return" Calmly, Greyjoy picked up the knife from the table, testing the blade's sharpness against his thumb. “And why have you even bothered digging him up? His stench is worse than your own!”. Although Ramsay knew he was taking a highly dangerous risk provoking Greyjoy, he simply could not endure the tension of his uncertain fate for much longer. If he was successful in riling his enemy up into a murder frenzy the blade might find its way to his jugular and the nightmare would be over.

With Ramsay eyeing his every move, the Salt King rose slowly from the table. Clutching the knife in his hand he walked over to the corpse and positioned himself behind it, resting his arms nonchalantly on the top rail of the chair. “Did you know, you talk in your sleep?”, Euron gave him a mischievous smile, “oh yes, quite the chatterer you are. After the stories my men told me of your nightly confessions I just had to hear for myself, and you didn´t disappoint! Such interesting things you revealed about yourself, your family…" The thought of the Kraken watching him while he slept made Ramsay’s stomach turn, "…I almost shed a tear when you cried about missing your father", Euron tapped the flat side of the knife twice against Roose's scalp giving off dull clunking noises, "so I merely wanted to bring you two back together again. It was a gift you see? You should say "thank you", Ramsay"

 _I want to thank you alright...by shoving that blade down your wretched throat sideways, you diseased cunt!_ Ramsay put on his best face of calm indifference. "Whatever your plan is, with all this...it is futile. He died by my hand and I feel no guilt about it. You can parade his corpse in front of me all you’d like...it will accomplish nothing" Greyjoy gave a loud snort, "Oh, I _know_ you killed him. Your men confessed all, right before they met the drowned God; besides, poison rarely stabs a hole in your gut...and that was the fable you spun, wasn't it? that he was poisoned?". He chuckled, letting the tip of the blade circle the cadaver’s scalp. “Tsk, tsk, Lord Bolton. You sneaky traitor...”

His soldiers were all dead then. Not that it mattered. He would never be able to shake off the memories of the rapes anyway, and even if his men had been able to rescue him from the King’s clutch his life was forfeit at this point; the shame of what had happened to him in the dungeon was simply too much to bear. "Just so you know, I don´t blame you. Family can be like a shit infested wound begging to be cleansed. No one knows that better than I", Euron flashed his unsettling smile again, the grin of a prehistoric creature, nothing but sharp teeth and foul intent. “But I digress. Answer me, please...how many tunnels are there at Winterfell?”

"I'll answer your questions if you let me go" The large man threw his head back and a great bellow of laughter filled the room. "Aaah, that´s rich!!! Would you like to make any other demands while you’re at it, hmh?" Standing behind the chair Greyjoy leaned forward over the corpse awaiting a reply with keen interest, his laughter had faded into a small chuckle. "Then at least grant me a quick death." Ramsay swallowed the lump in his throat, "all that I know about Winterfell, the Starks and the other northern Houses I will share with you  _if_ you slit my throat afterwards, that way we both get what we want" Euron rolled his eyes. "Not getting through to you, am I? Either you tell me everything...or I will make you regret, you didn´t". He clenched the knife handle tightly, the metal glimmering in the torchlight. Pulling forth the last shred of courage left within him, Ramsay turned his face away. "Got nothing for you then. So go ahead: make me regret it!"

“As the Lord commands!”. Promptly, Euron stabbed the knife into the dead man´s eye, pulling it from its socket with a wet, squishy _PLOP!_   Thick, green goo came pouring out of the hole spilling down over Roose’s cheek. Bending forward Ramsay threw up his supper, undigested chunks of stew landing on the floor and his boots. Greyjoy came strolling towards him with the eye skewered on the knife, holding it as casually as if it were a candied apple on a stick. He rested his rear on the table in front of Ramsay looking down at him with a serious mien. "Let´s try this again, shall we? How many tunnels are there? And don´t waste any more of my time or I´ll feed you this!". He waved the knife in front of his face. The punctured glob oozed a fluid that ran down the blade, thick and sticky like foul-smelling resin. "Aaahh!!!" Covering his mouth with his palm, Ramsay retched. "No, don´t! There is only the one!" His words came out muffled between the fingers.

"Good boy. I knew you’d come around! The next little piece of knowledge I would like for you to share, Ramsay, is how many nobles remain loyal to the Starks?” Ramsay sat paralyzed, staring at the pierced eyeball, convinced that a grey iris beneath the layer of white cornea were glaring back at him, conveying its disapproval of his cowardice. "I...I dunno!" he stammered. "Guess!", The King sneered and drew the knife so close to Ramsay's face the rotting glob touched his cheek. Ramsay gave off a howl of disgust. Staring at Euron with huge, wet eyes, he began babbling. "Around a thousand...but...but…maybe more...maybe double that...I dunno…if my men have joined them…please! Get it away! GET THAT THING AWAY!"

Retracting the knife, Euron considered the numbers. “Hmmm, that is...that's a lot” he muttered and bit down on his lower lip while studying Ramsay. “Are there any nobles unwilling to bend the knee to the Starks?" Ramsay felt a globule of decomposing fluid run down his cheek. He wiped frantically at it with his sleeve, gagging at the same time. "Karstark, Manderlay perhaps ". The King sighed deeply, clearly disappointed by the news. "And what are their numbers?" _Zero, most likely, but I'm not telling you that._ "A few hundred if I am to guess" Euron gave him a long hard stare then dragged the blade along his sleeve causing the punctured eye to drop to the ground “If you are lying to me I’ll find out soon enough, and then _his_ crumbling cock”, he waved the knife at the one-eyed cadaver, “will be your last meal, understand? So last chance little Lord...do you have anything to confess?”

Shaking his head, Ramsay swallowed bitterly. “I told you everything, I swear it. There is nothing more” Greyjoy's hand settled on top of his head, tussling the hair. "Good, you have done so good! See? If you just bow to my wishes I won´t have to hurt you. Do not want to cause you more pain than necessary”. _Lying swine_. If only their roles had been reversed. In his mind's eye, Ramsay pictured the Reaper's hide hanging from the walls of the chamber, a sea creature curiosity added to the collection of mainland nobles. He would have made him a masterpiece, perfecting the peeling and conservation of the skin, then suspending it from a place where he could enjoy the sight of it every single day. How he would have made him scream. _Oh yes._ The monster would have _screamed._

Standing up straight, Euron nearly blocked out the light from the torches behind his imposing frame. Ramsay glared up at him with hatred burning in his eyes, his nose flaring with each strained breath. Greyjoy's crotch was uncomfortably close to his face and he wanted nothing more than to drive his fist into the man´s balls, crushing them like snake eggs under a boot heel. _Won't make it far but maybe it will be worth it._ The King's hand trailed down and gave his cock a squeeze through his breeches. "Let´s play a little game", he smiled, locking eyes with Ramsay, "you like games, do you not?".

Sauntering around the table Euron placed himself behind Roose. With a quick brutal thrust downwards he stabbed the knife into the dead man’s skull, piercing the bone. “The rules are very simple: seize it and it’s yours.” he motioned towards the knife, handle sticking out from on top off the head like a candle from a candlestick. “Of course, you have to get past _me_ first”. Euron licked his lips in anticipation, his face now lit with impish glee. He folded his hands on his stomach patiently awaiting his opponents move. Ramsay's mind was racing, trying to figure out how to approach this new and very dangerous challenge he had been faced with. Acquiring the knife and stabbing it into Greyjoy's diseased brain was preferable, but he would settle with slicing his own throat if his main objective should fail. He gave his dead father a quick glance and swallowed hard.

Slowly he arose from the chair, feeling sly, predatory eyes follow him. Ramsay limped over to the table’s end, approaching the man submissively with his gaze fixed on the floor. "What’s the point? I wouldn't stand a chance against you, and I don´t want to take a beating for an already lost cause", his voice sounded uneven, faltering, "so I have a proposition instead...one that will prove beneficial for us both under the circumstances". Lifting his head, Ramsay met a pair of blue eyes, brimming with annoyance. “Negotiating again are we?", Euron scoffed, "tell me: what could you possibly have to offer that I could not simply take from you by force?”, He drew his face in close and growled, “ _nothing_ is what. You have nothing!”. A hard shove in his chest made Ramsay take a step backwards and almost loose his footing in the process. Euron spread his arms wide, urging him to charge. "Com’on! let's play!".

Ramsay closed his eyes, then sank to his knees in front of the King. Looking back up again, he saw Greyjoy's expression had turned into one of slight intrigue at the sight of his capitulation. “All I have to give is this. You could force it upon me, sure...still, some things are better without coercion, wouldn’t you agree, my Lord?” The Kraken sucked his teeth, “Well, well, Snow. Aren't you a dirty little whore? I would not have expected such lewd behavior from _such_ a prestigious man”. Inhaling deeply, he made an inward hissing sound then reached down brushing a thumb over Ramsay’s lips. “As tempting as your offer is, how could I possibly trust you not to bite me, hmh? You seem to be quite fond of it as I recall. Perhaps, I should remove all your teeth first just to make sure no accidents are to happen”. A single tear escaped Ramsay's eye and trailed down his cheek. "Nothing as drastic is needed. I only beg that my father...", he nodded towards the mangled corpse, "...he should not suffer such desecration any longer. I will do anything you say if you will but promise to bury him". His impossibly wide eyes locked with Euron's and he whispered in a frail voice, "and please don´t violate me again…please don´t. I will be good to you".

Flashing a row of pearly white teeth at him, Greyjoy weighed his words. A familiar tingle travelled from his balls, up the spine, and to the back of his head making the blood rush to his loins. His cock twitched at the sight of his enemy submissively kneeling before him. He rested his hand on top of the man’s head and gave him a hard threatening stare. “If I feel teeth even for a second, I will peel your hide like a grape then fuck whatever is left of you. After that my men will have a go...now, do you doubt my words?” Ramsay bowed his head. “No, Sire. I do not doubt you”. Greyjoy trailed his fingers down Ramsay’s cheek before retracting the hand to untie his leather belt and pulling out his already hard prick “Show me how sincere you are, Lord Bolton. We might have a deal if you please me just right”

In a flash, Ramsay had balled up his fist and with all the strength he could muster, smashed it directly into Greyjoy's exposed testicles. The large man doubled over letting out a furious roar of pain. His hand shot out grasping for Ramsay who dodged him easily then sprang swiftly to his feet, lunging for the knife wedged in his father's skull. Gripping the handle with both hands, he pulled and twisted desperately trying to wrench the blade free but it wouldn’t budge. _No! For fuck´s sake!_ Finally, the knife came free in his hand, giving off a wet squishy sound like a soaked sponge dropped on the floor as it detached itself from bone and mushy brains.

The body fell forward, head and torso hitting the table top with a dull clonk, its rotting tissue seeping from the gaping hole and into the wood grain. He barely had time to register that something was moving towards him with great speed before he felt a body slamming into his, sending the knife flying out of his hand and landing several feet away. Ramsay was thrust violently backwards. His hip hit the edge of the table, making him twirl in the air then plummet to the ground. The very instant his body connected with the floor he was up again, scrambling onto his hands and knees. He scurried under the table instinctively searching for a cover from his captor's wrath that no doubt would be upon him soon.

His heart was pounding against his ribcage as he looked out from between chair and table legs at the King's boots less than ten feet away. “That was a devious little trick, Lord Bolton…very devious indeed", a small amount of perplexity had crept into Euron's enraged tone, "you're going to pay for that" Ramsay watched in wariness as the boots travelled over to first pick up the knife, then began circling the table like a predator searching for the right angle to pounce. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, ignoring the gagging smell coming from just above his head. There were nowhere for him to run, no other choice than to remain waiting for whatever would happen next.

Strong fingers closed around the scruff of his neck, yanking him out from beneath his cover and onto his feet. He looked up into a pair of narrowed eyes blazing with fury. Placing his hands on Ramsay's shoulders, Greyjoy breathed heavily through his nose a few times, calming himself down so that he would not throttle his prisoner to death in a fit of rage. He was seldom tricked by anyone, man or woman, and most surely had never been done over by a bastard whelp who had barely entered manhood. The little cunt had turned out to be less timid and willing to submit than Euron had expected him to be at this point, and now he had even flashed his teeth at him. As much as he liked a good struggle, he did not care for such surprises and that was exactly what Ramsay had given him: a big fucking surprise, right in the balls.

"You disappoint me, Ramsay. What an insolent little tease you are", he hissed through clenched teeth, "is that any way to thank me for reuniting you with your Sire?". The hands on Ramsay’s shoulders felt as though they each weighed a thousand pounds and he began trembling beneath their pressure. He had failed his chance of ending the nightmare whether it be by killing Greyjoy or himself. Another opportunity to do so would most likely not arise again.

The prospect of his impending punishment was tearing his mind apart as it searched desperately for a way to lessen the blow. Should he fight, risking more damage to himself? Or should he comply and gain some favor, thereby making the King less likely to brutalize him? If there was no way out of the predicament and not even death was an option, what was there to do? Which ever path he chose to go down could turn out to be the wrong one, causing him to face some deeply regretful consequences. Then again, there might not exist such a thing as a right choice. The King was obviously a lunatic, a neither predictive nor logical man, so there was really no way of telling how he would react either way.

"I don´t want to hurt you, but it is as if you want me to", Greyjoy made a disappointed exhalation, "why do you make me do such things?" Ramsay's face twisted in a grimace, trying to choke back a sob stuck in his throat. The last ounce of his defiance was stated in a weak whisper "you are boring me again, you dim-witted oaf. Do what you must and spare me your tedious threats" Greyjoy let out a sigh, then settled his hand on the leather strap around Ramsay’s waist. Slowly, he started untying it with a series of rough tugs. Ramsay looked away in disgust, breathing rapidly through his nose as he felt his breeches loosen. The monster revelled in his discomfort, a wicked smile forming on his broad face. “Just remember you brought this on yourself”.

Grabbing a hold of Ramsay’s shoulders he bent him roughly over the table, holding him in place with a hand on his neck. Less than three feet away, Roose lay slumped over facing him. The thick, rotting substance spilling out of the eye-socket and out from the hole in his skull. Ramsay could make out the pupil of the remaining eye, and he tried turning his head away but couldn’t. Euron tightened his grip, pressing the side of his face against the wood. “What do you think your Sire would say if he could still speak?”, his breeches were pulled down over his ass, a gust of cold air brushed over his exposed skin “do you think he would be proud?” He closed his eyes, trying to escape. A heavy pressure was on his ribcage as Greyjoy leaned over, resting his weight on his back. A wisp of warm breath on his neck made him squirm and give off a weak whimper. Utterly helpless he lay pinned beneath Euron's body, making him lightheaded from the lack of air his crushed lungs could no longer provide his brain. A large hand closed around his skull as fingers pulled his eyelids upwards, forcing him to look straight ahead at the corpse. He tried shutting them again but couldn't. _You can´t see this, father. Don´t look at me, I beg you._

Something hard pushed against his ass. He struggled not to cry, yet a muffled squeal escaped him as Greyjoy rammed his full length mercilessly inside him, making the table rattle from the shear ferocity of his thrust. Without the slightest concern for his victim’s still healing body, the King began pounding away at his ass. Ramsay’s face was scraping against the wooden surface and his groin hit the edge of the table with each forward push of Euron’s hips. “Do you see, Lord Bolton?”, his violator sneered between short, rapid pants, “do you see your heir take my cock like a bitch in heat?” The dead man’s head shook to the beat of the rattling table. “Stop! Stop!” Ramsay gasped, but the monster kept stabbing into his shredded bowels unaffected by his pleas. Instead his mouth closed around the smooth skin on Ramsay’s shoulder and he bit down hard, drawing an agonized shriek from his victim as he broke the surface of his hide. “Since you enjoy biting so much, I thought I'd return the favour”. Euron's mouth curled into a bloodied smile. He bit down once more this time on the back of Ramsay's neck, evoking yet another scream. Then again, again and again, making his prisoner cry out miserably with each savage attack of his teeth.

Ramsay felt his soul come apart, ripped to pieces by humiliation and the trauma forced upon his body and mind. _You are not my son you weak, disgusting mongrel,_ Roose whispered with contempt, _no real man would allow himself to be corrupted so. Perhaps, it is because you like it...deep down you must like it._ The devastating words made a numbness spread through Ramsay's being and suddenly he felt nothing. The Kraken's heavy breathing faded in his ears as he stepped out of his body and floated to the ceiling of the chamber, lifted there gently by invisible hands. Looking down he saw Greyjoy abusing his shell left behind, sweat running down his face, his teeth clenched from the strain of fucking the tight ass with such complete ferocity it made his own cock sore.

Euron saw Ramsay staring off into space and realized he was trying to shut him out. He pulled his cock out from the swollen hole, then grabbed the semi-conscious man around the torso and lifted him of the table. Dragging the limp body a few steps backwards, he sat down in a chair and drew his victim onto his lap so that his back was against his chest. Greyjoy positioned himself against the sphincter, and with a firm grip on the narrow waist he pulled Ramsay down on his rock-hard member in a slow, but steady pace until he could feel warm flesh against his stomach and thighs. The Bolton bastard snapped out of his catatonic state with a jolt and a squeal as he was skewered onto the prick, feeling the full length and girth burying itself deep in his guts. While holding his plaything firmly by the hips, Euron began bouncing his ass up and down, moaning out loud from the pleasure he attained by Ramsay wiggling wildly in his lap. In his mind a wicked thought sprung to life.

A hand crept around Ramsay’s waist and closed around his cock, stroking it once. Instantly, his body went rigid. “No, no, no, no”, he whimpered, “WHAT are you doing!?!”. The despair in his voice made Euron feel on the verge of exploding. Holding Ramsay restrained with an arm around his chest he began jerking off his cock, applying long, slow strokes to the shaft. “I know, you want this...admit it”, he whispered as his hand began to stroke faster. 

A tingle in his lower region made Ramsay look down. His prick had gone hard in Greyjoy’s palm. “NO!” he screamed in terror and fought wildly to lift himself off the King, but the grip around his torso only tightened further, making it impossible for him to escape the monster skewering him. Euron picked up his pace, the thrusts of his hips turned short and savage. His hand jerked Ramsay’s cock at an equally ferocious speed, every now and then giving it a quick squeeze. Ramsay felt his body betray him as his cock grew larger and his back arched against the man behind him. Having no strength left to endure it any longer he surrendered to his shameful climax, letting out a muffled whimper as his seed poured out of his cock in short, angry bursts, landing on his rapist's hand, running down and in between his fingers like a thick, spilled cream.

The muscles in his gut twitched and his ass clenched down on Euron’s prick, making the man gasp and his eyes roll back in his head from shear ecstasy. With a loud roar echoing through the hall, the King exploded inside Ramsay sending a gush of semen into his bowels. Exhausted, Ramsay slumped back against Greyjoy’s chest trembling and whimpering. The Reaper lifted his hand sticky with semen, and gestured towards the corpse on the other side of the table. “Would you look at that, Lord Bolton! I told you he´d like it”. The monster chuckled, a diabolic joyous sound that made the last of Ramsay’s defences crumble to dust. He began sobbing pitifully into his hands, his body protesting wildly with each flexing of his muscles.

With his last strength he tried to lift himself off Greyjoy’s lap but strong hands closed around his waist and held him in place, denying him the freedom to move. “You made a mistake today, defying me”, a voice sounded close to his ear “maybe you don´t think that things can get worse, but I promise you they can and they will if you don’t start behaving”. Ramsay chocked back a sob. “so...will you start behaving?” When Ramsay did not answer he thrust his hips violently upwards, reminding his victim of what remained inside him and could easily stir back to life, hurting him all over again.

A gasp escaped Ramsay’s lips as a jolt of pain shot up through his sore body. “please no more…I’ll behave” his voice had turned frail and weak, the sound of defeat, “could you please just…remove it now”. Greyjoy placed his hands on Ramsay's hips and lifted him upwards, the bloodied prick sliding out of his ass. He collapsed on Euron's lap, too exhausted to stand let alone put up a fight. “See? When you obey you get a reward and when you don´t…well, you get this”, a hand reached around his waist and gave his cock a hard squeeze. "I..I..unde...stand...I understand", he stammered, his voice and body trembling from the trauma. "Good boy!". Greyjoy slapped his ass and lifted Ramsay off him, sending him into a near forward fall as his knees buckled from the sudden pressure of his own weight.

Putting away his member Euron pulled up his breeches and tightened his belt, then turned to Ramsay and began fixing his clothing as well. Looking down he discovered the semen coating his hand. "Hmm", he growled lightly and wiped his fingers off on Ramsay's shoulder who stood paralyzed, eyes blinking away a stream of tears, allowing Euron to readjust his garb as if he was a mere child without the ability to do so himself.

As he had near finished the task, Euron tugged gently on his doublet then looked into Ramsay's eyes with a serious mien. "Don't worry about him", he nodded towards the mangled body slumped over the dining table, "he's going into the ground soon enough. Starting to stink up the place anyway, but _if_..." Euron placed a finger on the bridge of Ramsay's nose, tapping it once and making him blink in surprise, "... _IF_ you try that little trick one more time...all three of us will meet up again and I'll make good on my promise of feeding you his rotting prick". Ramsay nodded his head slightly and looked down at the ground. Euron stared at the top of his head for a long while making sure he understood the threat fully, then turned on his heel and strolled towards the door. Flinging it open he yelled up the staircase, a playful tone coating his voice "Lorren! yer black bastard! Get down here and fetch his Lordship. We’re done for today!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like in the previous part of the chapter, the idea of reuniting father and son in one form or another was suggested to me by Java1. (I hope, I didn't totally gross you out with this!?). The presence of Roose's corpse is a little convenient, I know, but I thought it would make kind of sense, if the Bolton nobility were buried at the Dreadfort the same way the Starks are buried at Winterfell.
> 
> In case any of you are wondering why the "sex", and the mindfucks aren't more sophisticated, it's mainly because of my view of Euron's character, whom I regard as a simple sociopath (but with a few other issues piled on top of his troubled mind). Ramsay clearly has some sociopathic tendencies as well, but he differs from Euron in not being batshit crazy. Also, perhaps one of the men will turn out to be a lot smarter than the other. But oh oh which one?


	17. Grey Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay's story continues on. This chapter is told from the guard Grey Lorren's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although Grey Lorren is an original there is another character, Black Lorren, whom appears in both the show and books. Sadly, he meets his demise at Winterfell when the Boltons seizes the castle.

A blizzard howled and moaned through the courtyard making the world appear white with swirling snow. Struggling against the headwind, Grey Lorren staggered through the snow banks carrying his prisoner over the shoulder. During the hours the Captain had been occupied inside what the men had dubbed “The chamber of atrocities”, the weather had taken a turn for the worse, forcing him to take shelter inside the cellar he had led the Bolton Bastard into earlier that evening.

Even though Lorren had placed himself at the top of the stairs furthest away from the trophy room, he had still been able too pick up the grunts and anguished screams that emanated from behind the door. The sounds had made his skin prickle; the worst of it all was the rhythmic rattling of the dining table which created foul images inside his head he couldn't seem to shake off again. It had come as a true relief when Greyjoy had called for him to come collect what remained of his toy, and Lorren had been down the stairs and through the door in a flash, eager to get the job done so that he could get the fuck out of the cellar and away from whatever had transpired down there.

The two men had made it to the bottom of the stairs before the whelp’s weak legs had finally caved in under him and he collapsed on the ground next to Lorren, smacking the back of his head against the stones. “Arhhh”, Ramsay whimpered, blinking up at him a few times but making no indication of getting to his feet by himself. With reluctance, Lorren had picked him up and slung him over a shoulder. His back wasn't what it used to be; time and a hard life upon the seas had made sure of that, and although he could still perform certain tasks as effective as the younger lads, carrying around large amounts of deadweight wasn’t one of them. Luckily, the man turned out to be as light as he was short and Lorren found that he could lift the body with relative ease, and without the fear of his back giving in halfway through the lift. 

He fought his way across the courtyard, cussing the weather and his semi-conscious freight equally. As he pushed down the door-handle, the wind pulled it out of his hand and the door swung open with full force. Struggling to close it behind him, he almost dropped Ramsay down the stairs but managed in the last moment to tighten the grip around the man’s torso, preventing him from slipping from his shoulders. The Captain would have given him hell if his prize had taken a fall like that, and had his cursed neck also been broken in the process there was no telling how Greyjoy might react to the news. Lorren managed to force the door closed then began descending down the stairs, small whimpers escaping the prisoner's lips with each step he took.

In the cell he carefully placed Ramsay on a fresh pile of hay. There was no need to handle the boy with further brutality, at least not for the remainder of the day. Lorren knew he ought to revel in the fact that the Bolton bastard was finally getting his comeuppance, but the joyous feeling of seeing him suffer had long since passed. The revenge Euron Greyjoy had promised them all had turned into something depraved soon after the capture and at this point it felt more disturbing than satisfactory to bare witness to the King’s retribution on his men's behalf. Lorren wished they could just cut the bastard's head off and be done with it, erasing him from the Ironborn's long list of scores in need to be settled which had grown longer and longer in the last couple of years under Balon's rule, but the delay in execution unfortunately suggested that Euron had other plans with his catch. At this time there was no telling how much longer their King intended to torture the man, before they could put him out of his misery and move on, hopefully returning to the sea soon after Ramsay Bolton had been sent to whatever hell he belonged in. 

Looking down, he saw Ramsay had curled himself up in a fetal position, his glossy eyes staring into the wall ahead. The blanket lay curled up in the corner where it had been left earlier that night. Lorren picked it up and spread it over the trembling body, then left the cell closing the door behind him. Pulling up a chair in front of the bars, he sat down watching as his prisoner struggled to sob quietly under the cover. Lorren closed his eyes, hoping the remainder of his shift would pass quickly.

***

The crew of the "Sea Bitch" had dubbed him Grey, his twin brother Black. For the first eight years of his life he went by a different name, but he could no longer recall what it was. His mother had given him it to him when he was born fifty-six winters ago, and though he had tried to remember it many a time throughout the years, the name remained lost in a fog of the past clouded by a lifetime of drinking, fighting, fucking and pillaging. In the end he had given up and stopped trying, even though it felt like a betrayal, burying one of the few things she had given him in the large pile of things forgotten. It was simply too long ago he had answered to that name, and perhaps he had even cleared it from his memory for a reason. There were after all, a lot of things from those days best left in the past.

Their mother had originated from the Summer Isles where the people were dark of skin and had woolly hair like sheep. Though Lorren had inherited his father's straight, thick hair and sturdy build, everything else about his bearing he took after his mother, his dark eyes and broad features that contrasted to the Ironborn's pale skins and thin noses. He remembered that much about her looks, but her face itself had blurred in the fog along with all the rest. She had been brought to Pyke from Braavos by Black and Grey's father, the Captain of a major barque in the Ironborn fleet, though unlike most of the other women who were taken as salt wives by the Reavers, she had gone to the Iron Isles by her own free will.

Like a black diamond in the midst of salt flakes she was. A rare curiosity from a far away land with strange looks and even stranger customs, and although it had been hard for her at first, growing accustomed to the new land and its people, she ended up earning her place amongst them, accepted as one of their own due to her knowledge of medicine and seafaring skills (the latter she bested every Ironborn man in, even the sailors who had spent their entire lives at sea). She followed their father from one expedition to the next until the drowned God claimed them both in a storm just south of the Fingers.

Within three months of her death Lorren's black hair had turned completely grey, causing the darkness of his skin to stand out even more. The Maesters of Pyke had summoned him when they heard about the new silver-haired orphan curiosity that roamed the streets stealing scraps of food, but not one of them could explain the change in his appearance with true conviction. One Maester told him it could be due to the grief of losing both his parents, the other that it might be caused by his heritage and that a defect in _his people_ simply generated such a phenomenon every once in a while. Though being of opposite minds about the origin of his ailment, the Maesters did both agree on that whatever had caused the shift in his appearance wasn't deadly to anyone, and after their interest in him had worn off they made sure Grey and his brother found hiring on the "Sea Bitch". Their shipmates had been fond of nicknames, but they were not exactly a sophisticated lot, so Grey and Black became their new callings, and eventually throughout the passing of time their old names just faded away and disappeared for good.

In the cell, Ramsay made another muffled sob, the sound causing Lorren to sigh and shake his head unconsciously. It wasn’t exactly sympathy he held for the little twat, but witnessing Greyjoy's abuse of him was becoming unbearable, and even though Lorren did have a very good reason to hate Ramsay Bolton and wanted to see him suffer immensely at the beginning of his captivity, witnessing the bloodied shit-bucket and trembling body curled up in the corner every day now made him wish for the man's swift release from his misery.

At Moat Cailin his brother had lost his life when Theon Greyjoy under the white banner of truce had convinced the Ironborn to surrender to the Boltons. Balon's son had promised them free passage to the Stony Shores, and exhausted from the sickness that had already claimed half of their shipmates, the remaining men had agreed to the terms and opened the gates, letting the serpent inside the walls. It had all been a trick conjured up by Roose Bolton's bastard, and instead of the amnesty they had been promised, every Ironborn man including Black had been flayed alive.

 _What a way to die, Brother_... he thought and felt a stab of sadness from the horridness of Black's demise. Up until his death, the bond between Black and himself had remained unbroken no matter the amount of time passing between their reconciliations. They could read each others thoughts and despite great distances between them, Grey would get a strange throbbing sensation in his gut when Black was in peril. The same went for his brother if their roles were reversed. Neither of them could explain it; there was just _something_ there, like a infinitely long rope running across land and sea through mountains and valleys, connecting their heart strings to one another. Then one day out of nowhere, an overwhelming feeling of hollowness had filled Lorren's being and he knew then that Black's heart had stopped beating and whatever thing had held them together was cut for good. 

A hand tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Grey?”, Owen’s deep voice hummed from somewhere above him, disturbing his reminiscence. Lorren looked up at the man meeting his small, deep-set eyes. “Captain wants to see ya’”. Standing up, he cast a glance inside the cell. Bolton lay on his side up against the wall, unmoving except the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest as he breathed. It appeared as if he had finally fallen asleep. “Did he do it... _again_?” Owen’s question came off as more than a little bothered. Resignedly, Lorren nodded his head and sighed. “Aye”. The large man absorbed the answer with a contorted face, then moved over to the chair Lorren had occupied moments before and dropped down into it like a heavy sack of flour, the wood creaking dangerously from the strain of bearing his weight.

“Well, I bloody hope he’ll end him soon enough! This place makes me balls retract and I itch for the sea an’ a piece of cunny…haven’t developed the taste for splitting boys in half like he has! Aye, the little shit deserves it an’ all, but it’s getting out of hand and we’re all so fuckin’ bore…” Lorren cut him off before he could finish the sentence. “Shut your trap, Owen! Or you’ll find yourself keel-hauled all the way back to Pyke!” The man fell silent at once. Lorren rubbed his eyes. The watch and his worries had taken its toll on him and what he needed badly was sleep, not more of his men’s bitching. “For fuck’s sake! I’ll speak with him…where is he?”. He grabbed the keys hanging from around his neck and handed them to his replacement. “The grand dining hall” The large man said in the middle of a yawn, then gave a strained sigh at the prospect of the long watch ahead of him. Lorren had made it halfway to the dungeon door when Owen in a slightly worried tone of voice added “and Grey…leave out the bit about splitting tail, right? Me wife needs me”

***

In the great dining hall where the bastard and his predecessors had undoubtedly spent countless meals trying to best each other in cunt-ish behaviour, torches along the walls had been lit engulfing the room in a dim, flickering light. Lorren walked directly inside the room without knocking. The Ironborn did not believe in such formalities and their new King didn’t either. They were a seafaring people after all, not a bunch of landlubbers with a trail of perfume following their powdered arses, giving off a reek strong enough to make even a Braavosi whore gag. The Ironborn lived each day as if it could be their last because it very well could be. The sea was a harsh mistress indeed but so was the life of a Reaver. Paying the iron price wasn’t without its costs and dangers, mainly because poor villagers had a tendency to fight back when their livelihoods were threatened. 

Near the hearth at the far end of the hall, Euron Greyjoy stood leaning over the battle planning table with his eyes fixed on the game pieces. Lorren cleared his throat “Captain”. The King looked up at him, sending him a sly smile. “Lorren! Me ole’ friend! How fares our guest?”. “He’s resting, worn out from the day’s trials”, he looked down at the table, covered with miniature Westerosi castles and armies carved from wood and rock. “You wanted to see me?”. Greyjoy, still smiling, picked up his goblet and took a sniff of the wine. “Aye. I seek your council. You know the northern waters better than I...can our ships pass through White Knife or not?” His finger pointed to a piece of red cord on the table representing the river that carved through the landscape from White Harbour to the Lonely Mountains just north of the Dreadfort. “It depends on how far up river you want to go; the barques and crayers can make it to the bifurcation. Beyond that, the waters are too shallow and only the cogs and the other flat-bottoms can pass through, but even with those vessels _,_ Captain, you’d have to wait for the tide”. Greyjoy pinched the bridge of his nose like a headache was coming on. Apparently it was not the answer he had been hoping for. “I want Winterfell, Grey, and I want it before the Starks get a chance to regain their strength”

Although he had known Euron Greyjoy's plans of expanding the Ironborn’s dominion in Westeros, realizing the man's overly enthusiastic strategy to do so almost made Lorren drop his jaw. During his forty-some years in the Iron Fleet he had seen hoards of men die from bad decisions made by Balon Greyjoy, and he remembered all to well how his similarly ill-conceived plan of an uprising against the Iron Throne had ended. It was a fight they had been destined to lose from the very beginning, but the Lord Reaper refused to listen to any advice that spoke against his disastrous idea. As a result the Iron Fleet had been near decimated, Balon’s own sons had been killed and the last of his whelps was sent to the Starks as a hostage leaving only the girl-child, Yara, as a potential heir to the Salt Throne.

He liked Yara. She was a strong, fierce and capable captain but nevertheless he had not voted for her at the council met when the Crow’s eye had been anointed the new King. She was unfortunately for her just a woman and even though she was fit to be a leader per se, the fact of her sex was enough to make her vulnerable to the scrutiny of the patriarchy that ruled their nation. There were those who couldn’t stand the idea of being lead by a pair of teats, and the very moment she would have made her first mistake those same men would have jumped at the chance and stabbed her in the back. All they needed was an excuse to usurp her throne, and perhaps they would even have made their own excuse up to achieve their goal. Either way, a woman could not be an Ironborn ruler no matter the level of her intellect or battle-experience. Lorren liked Yara too much to see her getting herself killed so he had stood behind Euron instead. Of course that decision (which had seemed so right at the time) was one he had questioned many times over in the last couple of weeks.

“Winterfell cannot be overrun like so. Sailing up the White Knife, we would be too exposed. A fleet of such size would draw a lot of unwanted attention, and the news of our presence would travel to Winterfell ruling out a surprise attack. The Starks would be waiting for us with swords drawn...we wouldn’t stand a chance against them”. Greyjoy took a big gulp of his wine, his face contorting into a sour grimace like the wine itself was pure vinegar. “What about climbing the walls? Theon succeeded in doing so, didn’t he? That little cunt took Winterfell as easy as scratching his own balls…well, back when he had any balls to scratch.” The King gave a loud snort at his own jest, then recoiled back into his bitter condition once again.

“A child was the Lord of Winterfell back then. Sansa Stark may be an inexperienced ruler of the seat, but her bastard brother who sits beside her was the Lord Commander of the Nightwatch once, and he must have some experience with night-time climbing from his years on the Wall. Even if he hasn't, it is not a mistake the Starks can be expected to make again. They are too smart for that, always have been” The King had fallen silent, weighing Lorren's words while staring at the strategy table and biting his bottom lip. “Has the Bastard’s information proved true?”, he asked finally. “More or less. The ravens have all returned and bore the same message. Most of the Bolton allies have already bend the knee to House Stark, the remaining Houses do not have the men to matter to us.”

Euron swept the goblet from the table in one swift, violent motion of his hand. It bounced along the floor with hollow clunking noises before coming to a halt several feet away from the table. “FUCK!” The King yelled, his nostrils flaring as he slammed his fists down making every item on the table rattle and the pieces carved as wolves heads tip over. Lorren stood silently by, watching Greyjoy's fit of rage and keeping a stiff upper-lip while arguing with himself whether or not he should present the idea that had occupied his thoughts for several days now,  _or_ the one that had only just popped into his mind a moment ago.

His original plan had been to appeal to the Captain to dispose of the prisoner, so that they might return to the sea instead of rotting away at the Dreadfort, but after he had learned what the King's intentions were towards Winterfell, Lorren assessed that the situation now demanded a more refined approach to keep Greyjoy from throwing his people into yet another war they had no chance of winning. Even though he hated the idea of handing their enemy over and letting someone else give Ramsay Bolton the punishment he deserved, the bastard might prove too essential a part in securing thousands of Ironborn lives for Lorren to justify doing the killing of the man himself. Besides,  _dead was dead._ The Starks would without a doubt execute Bolton, so in reality it was only a question of who would get to swing the axe. Lorren decided the wolves could have the honour of doing so, if it meant preventing Greyjoy from sending them all to their deaths for nothing. Also, with his new diplomatic proposition Lorren didn't have to confront the King with his alarming proclivities and that in itself was almost as big a relief as stopping a pointless war.

Lorren inhaled deeply, carefully selecting his words before he spoke. “There is _one_ more option available to you, Captain”. Greyjoy looked up, his face had a sceptical mien like Lorren had just announced that Theon Greyjoy had grown his balls back. “And what is that, Lorren? Should we dig ourselves inside the walls like fuckin’ moles, hmm?” Greyjoy snorted, burying his hands in his hair, his face flushed and contorted with angry perplexity. 

“You could marry”, Lorren said, and paused for a second, “we need an alliance, if we are to conquer anything except fishing villages along the shores of Ironman’s Bay”. Silence filled the hall, as Euron looked up from the table trying to make sense of Lorren’s words, the expression on his face now puzzled. When he finally spoke his voice had turned a little less skeptical. “To whom? The dragon bitch has already taken in my niece and cock-less nephew. Cersei Lannister hates my House and fucks only her brother!”, he pondered the situation deeply, “that leaves only the Stark girl, but little Theon, _the twat_ , has ruined any good standing I could have hoped to obtain with the wolves” Taking a risk, Lorren interrupted him. “The girl might be interested _if_ you give her something in return...a gift, like the one you have locked up in the dungeon. The Starks want him back. They even have a fair reward out on him or so the rumor in the nearby village says. Perhaps, Sansa Stark’s yearning to see her husband part ways with his head is stronger than her need to remain a widow after it is all over”. 

Greyjoy’s blue eyes widened with sudden realization of the value of his negotiating asset. He stood swaying for a prolonged minute, staring at the table, trying to find an answer in the now ruined miniature landscape of Westeros, before raising both hands in the air in celebration. "Excellent!" he exclaimed, then picked up one of the carved wolf pieces from the table and kissed it, long and passionate like he was making a wish on a holy medallion. “By the drowned God” Greyjoy inhaled deeply its wooden scent, curling his lips in the widest smile Lorren had ever seen “I swear, I can smell the sweet nectar of a she-wolf's cunt already.” He hugged the piece to his chest. “Lorren, my trusted friend! Ready the Messenger hawk. Make sure she is rested and fed properly, and bring me quill and paper…I have a proposal to make.”


	18. Disclosure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, it is time to update:)
> 
> Ramsay is still in limbo while his nemesis and captor, Euron Greyjoy, seems to be moving fast forward in the world. The Salt King's plans for his own future are quite ambitious and involves some of House Bolton's old acquaintances, dying to be reunited with its last living member.
> 
> Ramsay's value as a commodity has suddenly gone up, but does that mean his life will take a turn for the better or the worse as a consequence?

Ramsay lay on his back, listening to the wind that swept through the Dreadfort like a horde of tortured ghosts, howling and whistling as it heralded the coming of a new day. Within a few hours it had died down to a sigh and was replaced by a brief moment of silence, before the distant sound of Ironborn men going about their daily affairs in the courtyard, leaked through the cell’s stonewalls and settled in his ears instead. Sleep had embraced him at one point during the night, but unfortunately it wasn't for very long, and once he had awoken from the brief respite there was no slipping back into her merciful arms. It seemed as though his body refused him an escape from the present moment, forcing his mind to take a share in the pain it had suffered from being brutalized times over in the past few weeks or...or had it been mere _days_ since his capture?. In the grisly nightmare he was living in, time itself seemed to have frozen. He had lost track of it he realized, but what did it really matter what day or week or even year it was? Every day spend counting the crevices in the cell-wall felt like just another grain from a endless pile of sand were being dropped into a gargantuan hourglass anyway.

His father’s rotting corpse, glaring at him as he was bend over the trophy room's table and violated had made Ramsay’s very soul cringe in horror, but when the rough hand closed around his member and his eyes fell to the erection provoked by Euron's firm strokes, a ground pillar of his fundament had shattered into a thousand pieces, leaving him with nothing but a desperate wish to cease breathing. Had Roose been right? Had he really found pleasure in the perverted things the Salt King had done to him? The thought made warm spittle fill his mouth and Ramsay dry heaved un till his throat was sore from the exertion, as if he could somehow purge his mind of the memory by regurgitating it. Although his traitorous body had reacted to his enemy's touch, he had felt no release when he spilled his seed into Greyjoy’s warm palm, only pain and horror…and shame. The shame had been the worst of it all.

Ramsay had not thought it possible to be subjected to more humiliation and pain than he had already been, before Lorren had led him into the trophy room last night, and where he found to his great dismay that it was. There seemed to be no end to the Kraken's ingenuity when it came to torturing his prisoner, and at this point Ramsay had tried everything he could think of to put an end to the abuse: from pathetically begging him, to fighting Greyjoy with what little strength he had left; even complying with some of the bastard's orders, hoping to archive a swift death rather than a cock up the arse. None of his strategies had proved effective and had left him filled to the brim with despair from the dawning comprehension that there might not be a way out of the pit of torment he was in at all. Recognizing the King's sadistic tendencies as a near reflection of his own nature, Ramsay knew that he had good cause to be afraid and feel despair of the future. Men with their common inclinations usually had an insatiable appetite when it came to inflicting pain onto others and therefor also strived to draw out the suffering of their victims for as long as they could (or until they had grown weary of their screams). Expecting any kind of leniency from his captor was beyond naive unless it somehow played out in Greyjoy's own favor to grant it, of course. 

He recalled the previous night's interrogation and the answers the King had demanded of him. _How many tunnels, Lord Bolton? What are the Stark's numbers? Which Houses remain defiant?_ It all added up to him planning an attack on Winterfell. Perhaps Euron merely wanted to plunder its riches, but most likely he was seeking to claim the castle in order to become King in the North and thereby securing a legacy for himself that no other member of his House had ever achieved. The information concerning the Stark status had seemingly disappointed the King and perhaps even dissolved whatever plans he had towards Winterfell. In hindsight, Ramsay wished that he had fed him some lies instead, such as understating the Starks' numbers or pointing out weaknesses in the castle's defenses in order to manipulate the greedy bastard into pursuing his ambitions, but at the time of the questioning he had been too distracted by Roose's rotting eyes, too fearful of Euron's retribution to even contemplate a simpel lie. Hopefully, his words hadn't entirely discouraged Greyjoy from proceeding with his plans, for _if_ the Ironborn turned out to be foolish enough to try and overthrow the wolves in their own lair, all of Ramsay's problems would be resolved before long and without him having to lift a finger himself for it to happen. 

House Greyjoy had on several historic occasions proved their ineffectiveness on land. Their inability to hold the castles and forts they conquered were laughable, and on top of all that embarrassing, strategic incompetence they never seemed to learn anything from their past mistakes either. The Starks on the other hand, had proven to be not half as thick as Ramsay had initially thought they were, and should Euron attempt an attack on Winterfell, the most strongly fortified castle in the North, it would without a shred of doubt end in the Ironborne's defeat. _Oh, yes. Please do that. Scuttle towards your fucking demise, you pimple on a goat's arse_. The Kraken would be put to the sword and so would Ramsay himself inevitably, but at this point in time death by beheading was a mercy and something he craved. His only hope was that Greyjoy would go first; that Ramsay would get to witness the fear so wonderfully carved into that hideous face as his head is forced upon the block, then hear the swish of Jon Snow's Valyrian steel carving through muscles, tendons and depraved bone, and the subsequent dull _smack!_ of Euron's severed head hitting the ground. After relishing the smell of his enemy's blood in the surrounding air, Ramsay would probably skip like a happy ram to the block himself. 

He heard the cell-door open with a squeak, followed by the sound of trudging feet. By now, Ramsay had learned to distinguish each guard from their footsteps alone so it came as no surprise when Grey Lorren’s bronze-colored mug appeared above him; his dark, weary eyes examining Ramsay's face. The guard's foot nudged him in the left kidney. “Get up!”, the man ordered, but in tone less harsh than usual. Ramsay complied with his request, rising slowly to his hands and knees and bracing himself for the boot that would undoubtedly connect with his rear-end soon. To his great surprise the attack he had anticipated never came. Lorren, an otherwise agitated and resentful creature, seemed to have grown patient overnight and instead of a well-aimed arse-kick, Ramsay was granted the time it took for him to get to his feet by himself; a gesture which he actually felt a small amount of gratitude towards the guard for. How eerie it was that his circumstances had changed to such extremes that _not_ being kicked was something to feel appreciative of.

As he rose from the floor, pain shot through his gut like a lightening bolt making him bend forward and clutch his stomach with a hiss. For a prolonged moment, he remained crouched over waiting for his strength to return before standing up straight, clenching his teeth as he did. Lorren's hand closed around his upper arm, and in an atmosphere of strained silence, Ramsay was led out of the dungeon and out into the hallway. On their way through the passage, they passed the hog-like (and impressively flatulent) guard, Owen, who sat leaned back in his chair, readying a pibe for his afternoon delight. The large man shot Ramsay a terse glance, shook his head once and exchanged a look with his cohort before returning his attention to stuffing the pibe with a sweet-scented tobacco.  _They know_. The humiliation burned his cheeks. Ramsay quickly bowed his head, hoping that the two guards would not become privy to the unbearable shame their awareness of his defilement had caused him. In a purposeful, yet strangely considerate tempo, Lorren led him up the stairs and into the courtyard like he had done the night before.

The dusk had settled over the Dreadfort like a thick reddish-orange blanket. Limping his way across the yard, the frozen hardness of the ground made a sharp stab of pain race from the balls of Ramsay’s feet and burn through his gut like soaring hot nails were being driven into him from multiple directions all at once. Some snow might have eased his suffering a little, but the wind had removed any trace of the padded layer the night before, leaving only the barren ground for him to hopple on. At least this time he was not blindfolded, which made him hopeful that there would not be a surprise of the same magnitude as the one he had been given the night before, awaiting him at whatever destination Lorren was leading him to. It all felt a bit gullible though, to contemplate such a thing as leniency from his tormentor; Greyjoy seemed to have something new and horrid up his sleeve every time they met, and deep down Ramsay knew that tonight would be no different even though he couldn't stop himself from hoping that it would. With his grip clamped tight on his prisoner’s arm, Lorren ushered him towards the tower on the opposite side of the dungeon that housed the family dining hall. 

***

At the far end of the great hall a fire burned low in the hearth, its warmth thawing Ramsay's frozen flesh as he and Lorren neared the thirty-foot long dining table situated in the middle of the room. At the end furthest from the entrance, the King of Salt and Rock sat leaned back in a chair with his legs resting on the table's surface and lips curled in his usual shudder-some smile. The King's head was bedecked with the wooden crown he had worn the first day they met, giving him the appearance of a mad beggar rather than the monarch he supposedly was. At the sight of his prisoner, Euron's eyes glistened brightly in the dim light and his grin grew so wide that Ramsay thought his face might split in two before him. Lorren led him to the opposite end of the table from the King, where an abundance of food arranged on large silver trays and several jugs of wine had been placed covering much of the surface. Although there seemed to be enough food and drink for ten men, only two sets of tableware had been put out: one at Ramsay's end and one at the King's.

With a small nod, Greyjoy dismissed his subordinate who immediately turned on his heel and left the room, abandoning his prisoner who now stood alone next to the table, awaiting nervously to be told what to do next. As he passed him on the way out, Lorren shot Ramsay a quick glance. It was so fleeting and seemingly neutral, that most people would not speculate further about its meaning, however; the son of Roose Bolton was not most people and although Lorren probably never meant for his cloaked emotions to become unveiled, Ramsay still caught on as easily as if the man had confided himself to him. It was a look of pity, and it made Ramsay's cheeks flame red with shame.

Greyjoy waited for the door to shut behind Lorren before he spoke. “Afternoon, Lord Bolton. How have you fared since last we spoke? Well enough, I hope. Apologies if my passionate conduct last night left you a little… _tender_ ”, his white teeth flashed in a sadistic smile. Ramsay stood in silence, trying not to wince too much from the discomfort of having to stand with a gut that felt like it had been filled with burning rocks. Even though Euron knew very well that his prisoner was suffering immensely, he let him remain standing next to his seat for a couple more minutes, all the while drinking wine, watching with an amused expression as Ramsay shifted uncomfortably back and forth on his feet, before he finally decided to end the torture. “Don’t just stand there like a stuffed owl! Sit!” Greyjoy gestured towards the chair next to Ramsay. With great strain, he limped over to the seat and eased his battered behind carefully down, giving off a small grunt as it connected with the wood.

A spoon and a goblet had been put out for him, but no knife unfortunately. At this point he would have rammed a blade into his own throat without a moments hesitation, bleeding out before the dumb-struck King who would then have lost his only leverage in dealing with the Starks, along with his favourite toy. A mere second of pain, a few squirts of blood, and death would claim him within half a minute if he was able to hit the main artery straight on like he had done with the wildling wench, the one who had abetted Rickon Stark in his escape from Winterfell, when he had killed her. There would be no more shame, no more suffering and most importantly: no more Euron Greyjoy. Yet as enticing as death was at this point, killing oneself with a spoon seemed too difficult a task even to a desperately suicidal man like Ramsay.

“I hope you brought an appetite”. The Kraken let out a small groan of effort as he swung his feet off the table, then rose to his full, intimidating height and came strolling down the table's side towards Ramsay, now shifting nervously in his seat, increasingly alarmed by the whole setting that seemed more and more like another nightmarish attack in the works. On his way, the King grabbed a large plate with a silver cover from the table's surface, then carried it over to Ramsay, placing it in front of him. Taking great pleasure in the watery eyes his looming presence provoked in him, Euron leaned down further in order to relish his prisoner's discomfort up close.

 _By the gods...NO! He is going to serve me_ … ** _it._**...The King was making good on the threat he had stated the night before; a precaution made to prevent himself from getting bit when Ramsay fell to his knees and offered to pleasure him with his mouth. Of course, their intimacy had never reached the point where sinking his teeth into the bastard's member had been relevant - a well-placed punch to Greyjoy's balls had made sure of that - yet Ramsay still suspected that the retribution for his actions were nowhere near over even though he had already suffered greatly for his little trick. The foul image of a man's shrivelled up, boiled member surrounded by steamed vegetables on a silver platter entered his mind, making him queasy and brought his stomach dangerously close to turning.

Ramsay's sat paralyzed neither blinking nor breathing, fearing that if he did inhale the air, the steam escaping from underneath the cover would fill his nose with the smell of his father's rotting flesh. For a second he contemplated throwing the plate at Euron, but knowing the King's twisted mind that sort of conduct would only lead to him having to eat the contents off of the floor instead. “I thought the two of us should have a little heart to heart before it's too late”, Greyjoy had an evil twinkle in his eyes, “but you really should eat something first. You might need your strength in the next couple of hours or days...depending on how well you behave, of course” With a swift motion Euron lifted the cover, revealing the contents of the plate underneath it “ _Ta-daaaahhh!!!_ ”.

With teary eyes, Ramsay looked down at the plate expecting the worst sight imaginable, then let out an audible sigh of relief as he realized that it was merely a mushroom stew Euron had presented him with, a dish seemingly free of any disgusting human remains. The meal itself actually looked pretty good and probably would have smelled like it also, if it hadn’t been for the Kraken’s sharp body odor, offending his nose with its seaweed-smelling unpleasantness. 

Witnessing his captive's sudden relief made Euron smile cruelly. "Oh, NO! You didn't _actually_ think...!?" He put a finger under Ramsay's chin, lifting up his face to look him in the eye, "I told you that I wouldn't do such a thing unless you misbehave again...where is the trust? Do you consider me a man of no honour?" Ramsay shot him a sour glare but said nothing, his eyes were visibly conveying his thoughts instead.  _Burn in Hell_. Chuckling loud, pleased with the terror he had inflicted, Euron turned on his heel and returned to his seat. "Eat up, boy!" he ordered and lifted his goblet of spiced wine in a toast.

Even though Ramsay had not had a meal since the day before last (and that stew had been wasted on the trophy room's floor), his appetite was still non-existent. If the sight of Greyjoy's face hadn't been enough to make him nauseous, the thought of being force fed his father’s member had done the trick. Still, Ramsay knew that refusing to eat wasn't an option he had, so without any protest he picked up the spoon and started digging slowly into the stew, carefully inspecting and sniffing each spoon-full before he brought it to his lips and subsequently swallowed with great strain. Despite his so-called promise, the Kraken could very well have slipped some chunks of Roose into the stew, and for no other reason than his own perverted amusement.

Euron, a goblet in his hand, sat leaned back in his chair, watching in silence as his prisoner worked his way through the meal. With great difficulty, Ramsay swallowed the last few bites from the plate, then slumped backwards with eyes closed, clutching his midsection hard in the hope that the food would stay down his unruly stomach and not come spraying out of his nose and mouth like a mushroom spouting geyser. He didn't want to be forced to consume his own upchuck, and that could very well be Euron's next bright idea to torture him with if he failed to hold it down.

Thankfully, the meal decided to settle in his stomach and Ramsay could feel a little of his strength returning from the nutritiant-rich stew. He looked up, meeting the Kraken’s eyes. “Good?” Greyjoy asked. His smile was bright and could even come across as friendly if one didn't know any better “Yes, my Lord”, Ramsay let out a small cough "thank you, my Lord" His sudden meek conduct made the King chuckle "Such nice manners, you've developed, Lord Bolton. It pleases me that your lessons in humility have not been in vain" He gestured towards the pitcher next to Ramsay "why don't you have some wine?". After having filled his cup to the brim, Ramsay picked it up with trembling hands and drank the sweet liquid in large gulps. _Wine, you beautiful whore; dull my senses, help me forget. Make me not care what happens tonight, please..._

Euron sat studying Ramsay while slowly rotating the stem of his goblet between his fingers. It was not until the other man had emptied his cup and lowered it again, that he finally spoke. “Now, Ramsay…I would like to know what exactly you did to my dear nephew” Euron’s smile was gone, his eyes now dark and glowering “and don’t lie to me...that would disappoint me very much. Need I remind you what happens if you do that?” The deep, raspy voice had turned low and threatening, reminiscent of a large predator’s growl just before it attacked.

The question made Ramsay’s throat go dry and he went for the pitcher again, filling his goblet. His mind was racing as he brought the cup to his lips and drank slowly, buying himself some time to think up an answer less likely to result in him being mauled than the horrid truth would. Given the fact that the Kraken seemed to be pretty well-informed when it came to Ramsay's transgressions, he had expected to be confronted with his past treatment of Reek at one point or another... _Theon! Remember? It's Theon, not Reek!_ Still, the inquiry had taken him by surprise and sent a warning prickle down his spine. His heartbeat accelerated into a full gallop at the thought of the unbearable amount of pain he would be subjected to this time around, if he didn't provide his tormentor with the right answer. After all the Kraken had already put him through, and for no other reason than the sheer pleasure he got from administrating pain upon his victim, what would the man not do to him if it became clear that Ramsay had turned his nephew into a anxious, neutered dog?

But then...there was also a very good chance that Greyjoy knew of Theon's fate already, and that this whole scene was merely him setting up another game of cat and mouse for his depraved enjoyment. Gossip travelled fast and far in the North, and in the off-chance that the tale of Ramsay Bolton's smelly pet had not reached the King's ears yet, the soldiers holding the Dreadfort had most likely been subjected to torture when the Ironborn invaded, spilling all kinds of Bolton secrets before they were mercifully put to death. Given what Ramsay had already learned about his captor, the whole dinner-setting and subsequent questioning was just a kind of sick, twisted foreplay of his; one that would most likely lead to the same endgame no matter what Ramsay said or did to try and prevent it from happening.

Memories from the previous, grisly night popped into his mind, making him almost choke on a mouthful of wine. His father's condemning eye staring at him while Greyjoy fucked him savagely; the large hand that closed around his member, stroking him to release and left him with a sense of insufferable shame and confusion that never would nor could fade away again. The horrors, escalating steadily throughout the afternoon, had been brought on by Ramsay's defiance (or so Greyjoy had claimed it was); the fist to his balls and the many insults he had spewed at him. After the rape, Euron had whispered in his ear that things would get worse if he didn't start giving in to his commands, and even though being rebellious was very much a part of his nature, Ramsay did not care to find out what the Ironborn's definition of "worse" meant.

Cooperating might not save him from an assault but perhaps it could make it less brutal this time. Sadly enough, that was the only thing left for him to hope for, tonight or any other night, he remained alive in the Kraken's custody. Ramsay felt the muscles in his throat constrict, but fought it off and managed to swallow the wine he had in his mouth. “I…I…tortured him” the words came out in a stutter. Anxiously, Ramsay looked across the table at his captor. Did he just make a horrible, horrible mistake? The King's face seemed to be frozen in a serious, unyielding expression causing Ramsay's foot to start tapping rapidly against the floorboards.

The Kraken leaned forward in his seat, selecting a grape from the bunch on his plate. “Yes, yes...and what else?” he asked with casual indifference, seemingly unimpressed by Ramsay’s arduous confession. He threw the grape in the air and caught it between his teeth. Ramsay squeezed his eyes shut, trying to build up the courage to speak the truth for once; a concept seldom-used when something was at stake for him. “I removed certain parts” he admitted, bowing his head and looking down at the table’s surface avoiding the King’s stare. “Like what, boy?” Greyjoy hissed, annoyed by his hesitation “ _what?_ ”. Ramsay inhaled deeply, but the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room, leaving his brain without the means to conjure up any helpful lies. “His fingers and toes….”, pause, “and…and...his…" he sank hard, "...his cock”.

A deep, rumbling sound filled the dining hall. Ramsay looked up confused and saw that the King had laid his head back and was laughing so hard, the chair was rattling underneath his weight. With eyes shut, he was pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers, like he had just heard the hilarity of a lifetime and it had caused his brain to hurt. The unnerving sound of Greyjoy’s wheezing laughter seemed to go on for several minutes, before it finally died down into a giggle. Ramsay held his breath as Euron met his gaze, teary eyed from the apparent jest that were his gelded nephew. “It’s no surprise, really…but it is still so fuckin’ hilarious to hear you say it!!!”

With a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, the King put the goblet to his lips and took a swig of wine “Poor little Theon” he muttered to himself, then snorted scornfully. Unnerved by the man's outburst, Ramsay was eyeing him with caution, holding his breath and bracing himself for an attack. If there was one thing he had learned during his incarceration, it was that a smile could turn into a vicious bite in the blink of an eye, and even though Greyjoy seemed sincerely amused by Ramsay’s actions at the moment it did not mean that an assault was not in the offing.

Euron had put the goblet down and leaned back in his seat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when suddenly his eyes widened in remembrance of the one thing he was most curious about. “So what did you do with his cock then? Feed it to your hounds?” With his mind racing to come up with a better answer than the one he had to give, Ramsay was staring at Euron, wide-eyed, frozen. A drop of sweat trailed from his hairline and down his temple. “What did you do, little Lord?!!” The Kraken insisted in a low, threatening sneer. There was no choice but to confess. “Sent it to his father…”. he paused “…and sister”.

This time the King’s raucous outburst of laughter made Ramsay wince. He sat in silent terror as Euron banged one fist on the table repeatedly, generating a loud, clattering noise as plates and silver clinked and rattled. The discomfort he had felt moments before when he confessed to gelding Theon had now paled in comparison. He shifted nervously in his seat, growing more and more anxious by the second as he watched his tormentor nearly keel over in his chair from the unintentional jest Ramsay had just made. Once the thought of Theon's cock in a box had been as amusing to himself as it clearly was to Euron, but those times were over; joy was no longer a part of his life.

“Oh, seven hells…that was good” Snickering, the Salt King wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. “Well...the little shit probably had it coming. Ramsay Snow! Join me in a toast: To Theon Turncloak!” He leaned forward, his face forming a broad, fixed grin as he raised his goblet in a mock-salute, motioning for Ramsay to lift his also. “Former Prince, present cunt! _HAZAR_!”. Ramsay put the cup to his lips and emptied its contents in a few big gulps. Euron drank heartedly also, and when he had taken his fill, he belched then sighed contentedly. A finger settled on his nose, stroking the neatly-curved bridge there.

He sat for some time, studying his prisoner as Ramsay refilled his cup for the third time and downed it with a determination that suggested he was in a rush to become drunk. “Very good, Ramsay...very good..." The King chuckled as Ramsay put down his cup with an audible _clonk!_ then gave him a long, sour glare. The wine seemed to have worked its magic and evoked a small amount of defiance in him. Euron licked his lips. How amusing it would be to stomp that tiny fire out again. "Now, I need you to tell me about Sansa Stark…what did you do to her? I’ve heard so many curious things about your marriage but I don’t know what is true and what is false. Please, do enlighten me”

Ramsay felt light-headed, a dazed state brought on by a combination of hasty intake of wine and the gut-wrenching fear the Kraken induced in him just by being in the same room. “Sansa-ah…" His wife's name came out as a croak, so he tried again. "Sansa...was my father's bright idea. He arranged the marriage between us to make the claim on Winterfell legit and to rally the Houses still loyal to the Stark name against the Lannisters...but as well you know, that didn’t exactly work out as planned”. Surprised by his own bitter admission of father and son's shared defeat, Ramsay closed his eyes for a moment to consider whether or not he should be confessing anything to the King at all. The wine seemed to be doing the talking for him, dulling his senses and the pain jabbing away at his gut, but most importantly it made him care less about what Euron Greyjoy could do to him. Ramsay decided that he longer cared what he confessed to, as long as the wine kept flowing his way and granted him the escape he so desperately craved.

“It is well-known throughout the Seven Kingdoms you were defeated at Winterfell by Sansa Stark... That must have been so embarrassing for you! Tell me, _Lord Snow_ : how does one lose the most well-supplied castle in all the North to a handful of wildlings led by a little girl AND during the fuckin' winter?!” Euron's acidy words made Ramsay grind his teeth, but he remained tranquil and emptied his goblet for the fourth time instead of spewing back the many accumulated insults he itched for. A wicked smile formed on the King's face as he shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps you are just not cut out for war...perhaps your place was meant to be elsewhere", To top off the insult he sucked his teeth sarcastically.

“Perhaps you are right, _my Lord_ ” Ramsay snarled, filled his cup again and drank hard. “But why did she marry you, I wonder? Word has it she is a great beauty, a tall wench with fine teats. Such an odd coupling, you and her...like a weasel rutting away at a pure-bred horse, it just seems so bloody unnatural. I would have thought she could have done better than you" Euron paused to ponder over his own words, "so tell me why she didn’t”

Ramsay's face flushed bright red, evidence that the King's words had hit their mark. With a sour grimace, he swallowed the remaining wine in his goblet. _And you dare speak of unnatural things, you despicable creature._ “Sansa had no choice but to marry me, really. The Lannisters wanted her head. Her aunt, Lysa Aryn of the Vale had died some time before, leaving Sansa without protection against her enemies. Meanwhile, Winterfell had been claimed by my father, rendering him the most powerful Lord in the North and her best hope of staying alive. So that is why she married me, Greyjoy... she was being pragmatic, that is all”

“A-ha. Pragmatic, you say?” Greyjoy contemplated the word for a moment, “and how did your love thrive? Was she good to you? Did your wife fulfil your needs by her own free will, or did you have to take her by force to get your little cock wet? I cannot imagine that a fine, noble bitch like that would touch _you_ by her own accord". Ramsay felt the anger boil up inside, begging him to let it roam freely. His fingers closed around the goblet's stem, turning his knuckles white as he tightened his grip and pulled back his arm to throw it at the Kraken's smug face.

The sound of Euron's threatening voice halted his intended throw in mid-air. "If you fling that cup, Ramsay...that will conclude the evening for you, and not in a good way, _trust me_ ". For a few tense seconds, the two men shot daggers at each other before Ramsay finally gave in and slammed the goblet down on the table, hard. "What's it to you!? She was my wife and I had the right to take her wherever, whenever I so pleased!" Snarling at his captor, Ramsay lifted the pitcher to fill his cup, but this time his depth perception failed him terribly, resulting in most of the wine intended for his cup was splattered over the table's surface instead. " _Arghhh!_ " Ramsay let out an annoyed groan, then proceeded to drink directly from the pitcher's spout.

"You had _the right_?" Euron, now staring him down sternly put the words in his mouth, tasting them. "How does that work? I've never had a wife, in the legal sense at least...", he paused, then tapped two fingers against his temple twice "Oh, I know! just like I can have my way with you wherever, whenever I wish... _right_?" His teeth bared in a grimace that made Ramsay's blood run cold. He put down the pitcher and averted his eyes. A long moment of silence passed between them before Euron spoke again. “Do you think she enjoyed it? Being with you, I mean” Ramsay shook his head reluctantly, keeping his eyes fixed on the woodgrain. “I don’t think so either.... well, in truth...I know she didn't”. The King ran a finger across the beard on his upper-lip, thoughtfully caressing it “...and yet, even after all that you have done to her, to her family, Sansa still longs to be reunited with her dear husband...isn't that the sweetest thing? A raven arrived this morning bearing the Stark sigil and her greetings"

Stunned, Ramsay looked up with eyes darting back and forth, trying to comprehend the words that Euron had spoken. Had the King reached out to her? Or she to him? Ramsay swallowed the lump in his throat while struggling to regain a small amount of composure. “As I would love to see her again. I do miss her…so very much” he lied. “Oh, worry not. You will get the chance to tell her yourself before long. The Starks will ride from Winterfell tomorrow; that makes for their arrival here in about three to four day’s time”. Euron leaned forward in his seat. His smile had returned and it was as sly as it was cruel. ”so you and I, still have a little time left to get to know one another better”.

Ramsay’s heart sank. Even though he knew that being handed over to the Starks was a better fate by far than remaining the madman's captive, the thought of Sansa seeing him in his broken state made him shudder. Perhaps she would even become privy to the full extent of his shame and bask in his humiliation before she killed him, like a fat, content cat enjoying the writhing of the doomed mouse beneath its paw. And yet... _I'd rather see her face than yours when I die, Lord of Shit and Piss._ At least with the Starks, death was a certain thing. He just prayed that Sansa would never find out what had happened to him in the dungeon of the dreadful place he had once called his home, for the notion of that soul-shattering humiliation seemed far worse to him than anything else, even death.

The King rose from his seat and walked over to Ramsay, who now sat staring in to thin air trying to make sense of the latest shift in his circumstances. Resting his rear on the table next to Ramsay's dinner plate, Euron leaned forward and gave his prisoner a small smack across the face. "Here, Ramsay! _Here_!" He snapped his fingers also, pulling him the rest of the way out from whatever place he had disappeared to and regained his attention. “So! I plan to ask for Lady Stark's hand in marriage, and I'm offering you up as my dowry. That ought to sweeten the deal quite a bit, don't you think?" Ramsay, in loss of words, blinked up at him a few times.

“My niece and cock-less nephew have already made it across the narrow sea to the Queen beyond and plead their fealty to her. That was my fuckin' plan but they beat me to it, the cunts, so that leaves me…”. Euron reached out his hand and let his index finger trail down Ramsay’s cheek, feeling the stubble that had begun to dominate the lower half of his face. The rasping sound of fingernails on the coarse hairs filled Ramsay's ears and he flinched a little from the discomfort of Euron's caress “...with a second option: allying with the Starks". The finger was now brushing past his lips, toying with them and feeling their fullness. Ramsay wiped his face to the side, his nostrils flaring in disgust. He wanted to bite Greyjoy’s finger off badly, but he also quite clearly recalled how he had tried to do that once already, and how it hadn't exactly worked out well for him that time.

“So you understand, Lord Bolton...you are in my way now. Lady Sansa needs a divorce, and as much as I´m going to miss your company, my appetite calls for something that the Dreadfort can not provide me” Roughly, Euron grabbed Ramsay's chin between his large fingers and thumb, forcing him to look straight into his narrowed eyes. “Besides...I am a very jealous man and I _hate_ sharing". His voice had turned more chilling than the air outside "Since you´ve been so well-behaved and not lied to me once tonight, I am going to give you a choice: I can either bend you over this table and ram my cock up your ass _again!..._ " With quivering lips, Ramsay blinked away a tear. “...or you can pleasure me with that sweet little mouth of yours, just like you offered to do last night”.

Choking out a sob, the former Lord of the Dreadfort closed his eyes and deliberated what to do with the choice he had been given. His gut hurt so bad, he suspected his insides had gone from solid to liquefied by now and would soon come sliding out his ass if he wasn't granted a break from the King's brutal poundings. He couldn't live through one more of those assaults nor did he care to. There wasn't really a choice to be considered; somehow the disgusting notion of Euron's member in his mouth seemed like the lesser of two depraved evils. “I don´t know how to do that, my Lord. _Please!_ ” Euron brushed his thumb across Ramsay’s soft lips again, then forced them apart a little by pressing against his front-teeth with his index-finger. “Open up! Come on!” he growled, but Ramsay kept his mouth clamped shut and was staring up at him teary-eyed and defiant instead. "I said: _Open up_ , Ramsay...or I'll feed you my prick and split you in half afterwards!"

With reluctance he opened his mouth and Euron slipped his digit inside, making Ramsay gag at the salty taste and the thought of another man’s body part in his mouth. “Now, close your lips around it and suck...and no teeth, boy, or you'll get to feel mine again", he hissed in pleasure "but do make some sounds...choke all you want; I like that”. Stiffly, Ramsay began to suck on the finger, trying his best not to gag too much while doing it to avoid adding to the Kraken's perverted pleasure, but unfortunately that proved to be a near impossible task. "More" The King ordered and licked his lips, then went silent, watching as Ramsay's cheeks hollowed, attempting to create a small vacuum around the finger. The bastard’s mouth was warm and moist, and when he put in the suction Euron could feel his cock begin to stir. “Use your tongue to swirl around it...and look at me...yes, very good... _Mmmm_ ”. The request made Ramsay's skin crawl but he complied nevertheless, looking awkwardly up into his tormentor's eyes as he sucked and licked his digit. Tears started flowing from his eyes from the humiliation, but his evident discomfort only made Greyjoy enjoy it all the more. The King's eyes started to glaze over, his breathing turning rapid.

Ramsay looked down at the man's crotch and saw his erection straining against his breeches, threatening to break through the seams. _No.._..Any second now, the King would grab him by the back of the neck and force him to his knees in front of him, then Ramsay would taste the salty, awful tinge of the King's member as it slid down the lenght of his tounge, invading his throat. Choking on his enemy's manhood, with its entire length raping his esophagus, he would try to pull his head back and push against his tormentor's strong thighs with all his might, desperately struggling to breathe, to get away...but of course, he wouldn't be allowed to do that. Euron would snake a hand in his hair, holding him in place as he fucked his throat mercilessly and pulling Ramsay so close to him, his nose would be embedded in his pubic hair. His nostrils would flare angrily against the brown growth until his vision blurred, his face turn an angry red, and the last sound Ramsay would hear before loosing consciousness would be the Kraken's roar of pleasure...

Euron pulled his finger from Ramsay's mouth and gave him a smack on the cheek, snapping him out of his catatonic state. Pausing for a few moments to regain his breath, he took off his wooden crown placing it carefully on the table next to him, then got to his feet and placed himself behind Ramsay, leaning his stomach against the backrest of the chair. Ramsay felt his exhalation make the fine strands of hair on his head flutter like long grass in the wind. Euron's hand trailed down Ramsay's neck and pulled his doublet a little to the side to inspect the bite-marks he had so brutally inflicted on his back the night before. The soreness provoked a small hiss of pain as the King let his fingers glide over the landscape of his back, locating and groping the swollen wounds. “ _Hmm_ ” Greyjoy muttered thoughtfully, then reached under his robes producing a small vial with a thick, reddish brown ointment inside. With a few careful strokes, Euron applied the salve on the wounds and returned the vial to his pocket. “There! Good as new!” He slapped Ramsay’s shoulders and let his hands remain resting on top of them, tapping his fingers rapidly against the collarbone. “As much as I want to see you on your knees again, I do have something a little different in mind for you tonight”.

As swift as a striking adder, Euron coiled his arm around his throat and began to slowly squeeze his windpipe shut. Ramsay let out a surprised gasp before his air supply was cut off by the pressure on his gorge. Shiny, little swirly specs of light danced before his eyes, and the dining hall seemed to be narrowing. By pure instinct, his fingers searched for the for arm, leaving long, bloody trails from his nails down its length as he fought desperately for his life. Greyjoy was speaking while choking him, but the words reached his ears slurred, devoid of meaning. Ramsay's vision began to fade, and a few moments later his world had turned completely dark.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing this chapter, I found myself having doubts about the english grammar many times. If you see something that annoys the shit out of you, please let me know. I might not be a rabid perfectionist, but I like learning from my mistakes as much as possible.


	19. No Rest for the Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay wakes up...

_Ramsay…please…don’t do this! Haven’t you hurt me enough?!_

The shrillness of Sansa’s voice echoed through the dark abyss, growing increasingly louder as it swept towards him like a fiendish bat in the night. He tried to cover his ears to protect himself from the piercing noise threatening to cut his brain in half, but couldn’t. Whether his arms were restrained or missing he could not tell; having been reduced to a weightless being floating through dark space, numb to everything except sound, he had lost control of his body. There seemed to be no escaping the raging intensity of his wife’s pleas, and just when he thought his skull was about to burst wide open from the pain the now near feverish pitch provoked, the baleful voice suddenly fell silent. Then,

 ** _Stop it!_** Sansa screeched with all her might. **_STOP!!!_**

A flash appeared before his eyes, then faded slowly and Ramsay found himself back in Eddard Stark’s fur-covered bed with his nose buried in soft, thick hair the colour of angry fire, inhaling the mixed fragrance of mint-scented soap and fear exuding from Sansa’s scalp. She writhed beneath him, trying to kick him off her; he laughed scornfully at her weak attempts to save what little dignity she had left as he undid his breeches, and did what he had done to her every single night since their wedlock.

Even though she outweighed him by quite a few pounds, a match in bodily strength the wolf's daughter was not. Raised a pampered Lady within the safe confinement Winterfell provided, shielded from the brutality of the real world and men like Ramsay Bolton, Sansa was as inexperienced a fighter as she was at performing her marital duties, and all he really had to mind during their little love-tussles were her knee to his balls and nails in his face, desperately searching for an eye to poke out.

Although Sansa's resistance was at best mediocre and he usually liked it a bit rougher than what she had to offer, Ramsay still found immense pleasure in taking her against her will. All those awful memories of humiliation and frustrated fury accumulated throughout a lifetime as Ramsay Snow; a bastard outcast in the midst of pure-blooded Lords and Ladies, relentlessly seeking high-born recognition but earning nothing but condescending stares and comments, welled up in him and channelized through merciless thrusts into the noblewoman beneath him.

And not just any highborn bitch either, but the very blood of Eddard Stark now his by long overdue right. When Ramsay finally allowed himself to climax, he came longer and harder than he had ever done with Myranda or any other girl he had bedded willingly or not, for with Sansa, fucking was something beyond mere release: it was a purge; a purge of the venomous leach that had been feasting on his soul from birth. _You liked it, didn’t you Sansa? Me inside you._ He would rasp in her ear, then savor the small whimpers of disgust caused by his warm breath on her skin, _your wet cunt testifies that you di…_

“ **WAKE UP!!!** ”

Ramsay issued a startled grunt as someone slapped him hard on the cheek. He opened his eyes, staring directly into the grinning face of Euron Greyjoy mere inches from his own but appearing upside-down from his perspective. “Are you still in there, Lord Bolton?” the Kraken asked cheerfully, then reached down sweeping back an unruly lock of dark hair that had fallen across Ramsay's forehead. _Regretfully, I still am_. Ramsay met the man's lopsided grin with a tired glare. The wine that had worked so well to keep his fear restrained when Greyjoy had questioned him about his marriage earlier, had now neutralized and settled as a pounding headache instead. “Good! I was beginning to worry I might have pressed a little too hard. Can’t have you running around slobbering all over my floors when our guests arrive.”

Though still dizzy from being so abruptly ripped back into consciousness, Ramsay tried to regain his bearings. A familiar smell of ammonia filled his nostrils, and he realized he was back in the trophy room where the unspeakable nightmare had taken place a day before. It was evident that his father’s corpse was no longer there in the room with them, for had it been the air would have felt gagging and not just putrid as it now did. Although faded slightly, the sick, rooting stench still tarnished the air. It seemed as though, in all his obduracy, Roose had refused to take his leave and seeped into the walls and floorboards just to remind Ramsay of the humiliation he had suffered in that room, as if the pulsing throb in his gut caused by Euron's ferocious thrusts wasn't enough of a reminder.

Ignoring his tormentor's looming presence above, Ramsay lifted his head a little in order to glance around the room and found he was laying splayed out horizontally with wrists and ankles fastened to each of the four corners of a Bolton Cross. The contraption itself was resting on top of the same table Roose’s brains had been spilled onto and upon which Ramsay had been violated. In his exhausted mind the memory of rotting eyes staring him down had now settled, haunting him mercilessly, and even though Ramsay was not a strong believer in gods of any kind he still found himself praying to both the old and the new, begging that the previous night’s horrors would not be repeated.

With a strained sound he gave his bonds a hard yank, but as expected the leather straps which secured his limbs to the cross were tightened to such degree, it allowed him only to writhe his body a little, gyrate his ankles and wriggle his fingers uselessly back and forth. Ramsay sighed and let his head fall back down, hitting the wood beneath it with small _clunk!_. The sound of his resignation made the King chuckle. “That’s right: don’t waste your breath, lad. It would be a shame, considering how little time you have left in this world”. Euron’s eyes swept over Ramsay’s form, relishing the sight of his prey utterly helpless, strapped to the same kind of rig so many of his people had lost their lives upon and where Balon’s heir had lost his manhood. "Just relax".

Thinking he might go mad if he had to look at its ghastliness for one more second, Ramsay closed his eyes, trying to block out the sight of his tormentor’s grin. His mouth had gone dryer than a bucket of sand, and his throat clicked as he swallowed. “What are you planning on doing to me, hmm? Surely you do not think Lady Sansa will be pleased if I am already torn to bits upon her arrival?” There was a brief moment of silence, before a light salt-smelling breeze swept across Ramsay’s face as Euron moved away from the table, positioning himself somewhere to his right. “No-no, I believe you are quite right" Greyjoy said in a chipper voice, "an exquisite company like that of Sansa Stark’s, calls for the finest appearances…even yours, Lord Bolton. I'm not going to cut anything off you that won't grow back".

There was a sound of stirred water close by, then the feel of a finger trailing down his stubbed cheek before Euron's large hand closed around his chin, cupping it. Cold water was slabbed onto his face. Ramsay opened his eyes, mildly startled by the sudden cool exposure to his skin. “Don’t worry, I wish simply to help you look presentable for your wife. It ought to last un till the Lady arrives; I’ve seen bitches with more fur on their faces than you” Euron stood bent over him, inspecting Ramsay’s facial hair as a horse-dealer would a stud’s coat at the town-market. Then, in a low, mocking voice almost as repulsive as the sight of his face was to his captive, he started singing:

 

_“He smelled the scent on the summer air!_

_He sniffed and roared and smelled it there!_

_Honey on the summer air!_

 

_Oh, I'm a maid, and I'm pure and fair!_

_I'll never dance with a hairy bear!_

_A bear! A bear!_

_I'll never dance with a hairy bear!_

_The bear, the bear!_

_Lifted her high into the air!_

_The bear! The bear!”_

 

Ramsay could only stare straight ahead, speechless, as his tormentor brutally defiled what had been his favourite song as a child. Then, a memory flooded his mind. The Dreadfort’s hired scholar, Maester Gaevor, punishing him with a single cane-lash for singing it during one of their many tedious lessons in Westerosi history. It happened just short of Roose relieving him of his duties when it was brought to his attention by Locke, his trusted banner-man (or as "trusted" as any subservient of Roose's could possibly be), that the old man was teaching Ramsay something other than reading, writing and basic manners, which of course was a clear breach of the agreement between them. The Maester had defied Roose by attempting to install concepts of right and wrong into Ramsay and exposing him to the idea of his transgressions being punished ten-fold in the afterlife. What the Maester had failed to understand was that a son of Roose, bastard or no, had no need for such sentiment - in fact, he didn't have the _luxury_ of containing such an emotion even if he was amenable to it.

The brutal notoriety of the Bolton-name was what had kept them in power for a thousand years, not tales of their forbearance or tender ways and should a potential heir suddenly start to grow soft, sprouting tits so to speak, their allies would perhaps either turn allegiant to someone else, or even try to take over their land and titles themselves. If Ramsay's soul should turn out rotten and in need of a cleanse...well, there were leeches for such ailments. Since Roose had convinced himself of their healing powers, the bloodsucking parasites provided the only remedy needed for him or his offspring. It was safer and much easier that way, and besides sentiment was for women not Northern Lords, especially not a Lord who had the ambitions to become a King. The memory of Gaevor was still very vivid in his memory all these years later, perhaps because Roose had shown a rare case of leniency when dismissing the man after his gross offence, flaying only the fingers of one hand before sending him on his way.

Ramsay pulled himself out of his reminiscence and found that Euron had stopped singing. Instead he had grabbed a small bar of soap from a bowl on the table and started rubbing it on the lower half of Ramsay’s face, preparing it for the shave. When done, Euron dropped the soap back in the bowl and produced a straight razor from the inner pocket of his robes. He caught Ramsay staring at the steel with longing and grabbed a hold of his chin, this time digging his fingers deep into the hollow of his cheeks to make sure there would be no sudden movements. Euron rested the razor against Ramsay’s skin just below the left eye; the sharp steel playing in the light from the torches.

“I can do that myself, you know” Ramsay scoffed, and let out a bitter snort. “Sure you can, but…” The moist, rasping sound of metal being slowly trailed against the grain filled his ears. _Shk, shk, shk_ “…I better…help you…out….” Lost in deep concentration, the King shaved Ramsay's cheek, careful not to break the skin as he let the blade glide across its pale, soapy surface, leaving a slight burn where it removed the stubble. “…just in case…you get…any….silly ideas” Euron hit the razor against the edge of the bowl twice, removing the soap and hairs along the blade, then continued on with the other cheek. When he got to the throat and chin, his grip tightened around Ramsay’s jaw to such degree, Ramsay could have sworn he heard the bones in his skull crunch from the strain.

The thought of being so close to his salvation without actually being able to embrace it was almost enough to make Ramsay break down weeping from disappointment. He had to fight hard to keep the tears that flooded his eyes from spilling down his cheeks, to stop himself from capitulating to Greyjoy's torture once again. For what purposes the King was so awkwardly grooming him, he dared not perceive; all he knew was that crying would not help him one way or the other so instead he bit the inside of his cheek till blood filled his mouth, hoping to keep his mind of the blade, its merciful sharpness and the sweet release of death it could bring him. With a skillful, steady hand, Euron kept on shaving his face, seemingly unaware of the fight going on inside Ramsay. When he was finished, he wiped off the razor on his sleeve and put it back in his pocket, then produced a small cloth and dried off the remaining soap still covering Ramsay’s face. Satisfied with the result, Euron let a hand swipe down his cheeks and chin, feeling the smoothness of the skin there. “Nice and soft…like a kitten’s ear.”  Ramsay whipped his head to the side in silent defiance, nostrils flaring, eyes staring at the hides on the wall.

Snickering like a child breaking curfew the Kraken withdrew his hand. “Don’t go anywhere - I’ll be right back”. He pivoted, heel-toe and sauntered towards the door, leaving it wide open as he exited the room. Cool air from the hallway hit Ramsay’s face making him shiver. He lay for a while without moving, listening to the heavy footsteps disappearing up the stairs before giving the leather straps around his wrists a few rough tugs. As expected they didn’t budge an inch; tightened to the extent of almost cutting off the blood circulation, the restraints were simply too strong, the buckles too well forged to gain leverage and slip a hand out from under them. As it were, escaping the cross was impossible, and he should know having strapped his fair share of doomed men onto its beams throughout the years himself. Instead of wasting any more of his already dwindling strength by struggling further, Ramsay shut his eyes and waited for Euron to return.

After a few minutes of agonizing silence, the squeaking hinges pierced the room again. His captor was back, now whistling the song he had so barbarously butchered moments before and carrying a large bucket with water sloshing over its sides. Ramsay watched as Euron placed the bucket on the table just a few inches away from him, then leaned over looking down into his face, examining it. “Just remember…everything I do to you is brought on by your own actions. If you hadn’t played that trick on me the other night I might have left you alone for the rest of your stay, but now...well, let's just say you’ve awoken in me the need to explore new things”. A small, involuntary whimper escaped Ramsay’s lips as the King flashed him the familiar predatory smile. “Ready?” Euron asked with a grin while soaking the piece of cloth he had used earlier to wipe Ramsay's face with, in the bucket. "Here it comes" The dripping cloth was placed over his face, covering it entirely. Water trickled down Ramsay’s nose and into his mouth, causing him to expel loud spluttering noises as he fought to breathe through the cold wetness. He bucked and shook his head furiously trying to remove the cloth, but to no avail.

A firm hand grabbed him by the hair holding him in place, then came the sound of water sloshing. _Oh…fuc..._ A slow cascade of water hit his face, making him cough violently and clamp his mouth shut, preventing the fluid from seeping inside. For a while he held his breath trying to delay the inevitable, and when he finally exhaled and subsequently inhaled again, it brought the damp cloth into his nose and mouth like someone had clamped a giant, wet paw over his face. He bucked and jittered in his restraints, but the water kept coming, flowing steadily into his gullet, hitting his uvula. He coughed and spluttered in blind panic, unable to determine whether he was breathing in or out, flooded more with anxiety than actual fluid. Ramsay felt his throat muscles spasm and his consciousness ebb out, when suddenly the water flow stopped and the cloth was ripped from his face.

Water gushed from his mouth and nose as oxygen was finally permitted back into his lungs causing the fluid that had filled them to be forcefully expelled. With his heart hammering away in his chest, threatening to burst through his ribcage, Ramsay heaved in the air in long, painful breaths then slumped back on the cross like a heap of wet ashes. A fleeting thought passed through his mind then; it was one filled with despair yet also containing a strange sense of admiration for his captor’s skills in a torture discipline he himself was inexperienced. _He knows just when to stop short of killing me..._ Exhausted beyond comprehension, he opened his eyes slowly only to see the Kraken grinning back at him with a smile so wide it made Ramsay's toes curl. “Breathe, boy, _breathe_ …”. The King wiped the regurgitated water and saliva from Ramsay’s chin with his hand, then traced two fingers up along the side of his neck, settling them on the pulse point a few inches below the ear. “breathe…very good…. _shhh_ …” he soothed and chuckled lightly as he felt the rate of the throbbing vein beneath his touch decreasing, turning into a less irregular rhythm instead.

Ramsay felt the wet cloth covering his face again and his body jerked. _No!_ The water started flowing down onto his face, but this time he did not have the strength to hold his breath for long. Choking and spluttering more from instinct than will to survive, he felt himself slip from consciousness. Though his senses hardly registered it, the cloth was suddenly ripped off his face. The world stayed slow and spinning. He heard Euron calling from far away “Ramsay! Ramsay!” a hand slapped his cheek hard “Are you with me, you little shit?”. The voice was closer now, and a little flickering light had entered his world. His eyes fluttered weakly open as he struggled to pull himself out of the haze clouding his brain. He looked up at the ceiling, trying to regain his focus, but it was spinning wildly out of control and made the nausea rise in his gullet anew, earning him nothing but a mouthful of warm spittle for his trouble. “Good…I want you to feel this”.

Out of nowhere, a sudden rush went through his stomach making him feel in a state of weightlessness. It was followed by a painful stretch of the spine and blood-rush to his head as Euron pulled the cross over the table’s edge and eased the beam's ends onto the floor so it stood in a vertical position, leaving Ramsay hanging upside down stretched out to each of its four corners. More water sprayed from Ramsay’s mouth this time mixed with wine and mushroom stew, running down into his eyes and hair, but he hardly registered it. Fingers slit between his lips, forcing his mouth wide open. Euron’s malevolent voice sounded from somewhere above him. “Open up…yes, that’s right…” Ramsay groaned, his eyes rolling back and forth in their sockets as he felt his jaw being pried open by Euron's insisting digits.

Something large and wide forced itself into his mouth, stretching his lips painfully around its girth. It hit the back of his throat causing him to choke again. _No! no! no!_ He wanted to fight back, but there was no more of that left in him. The almost drowning had drained whatever strength he had, and all he could do was choke around the King’s member as it slit down his throat, making it spasm wildly. Euron grabbed a handful of hair on the back of Ramsay’s head and held him in place as he pushed his cock deeper down his throat. He felt the Bolton bastard gasp and choke around his length, the vibrations it provoked made his balls tighten. The warm, wet embrace of Ramsay’s mouth and throat and the contracting muscles surrounding him felt so good, he was ready to shoot off his load then and there, but in the very last second, managed to delay his ejaculation by grabbing ahold of his member and squeezing it at the base. Satisfied with his accomplishment and no longer fearing the premature ejaculation, Euron then forced himself the rest of the way into Ramsay's mouth untill he could feel his chin resting against the groin, his nostrils flaring angrily against Euron's growth.

Still groggy from the waterboarding, Euron could tell his disoriented victim hadn't fully grasped yet what was being done to him. Using his body as a contra-weight he stood leaned up against the cross, that way preventing it from tipping forward and sending Ramsay falling flat on his face with the contraption on top of him. The weight of it alone would probably break some bones and shatter teeth, which Euron had no interest in seeing happen. You couldn't very well hand over a broken gift, so no matter how much he deserved to have his teeth knocked from his skull, Ramsay still had to look presentable for when the Starks arrived. What they chose to do to him afterwards was their own business, but for now the face and other visible parts of him was to be spared. What lay beneath the bastard’s skin where no-one could inspect the damage done...well, that was a different matter.

Euron put his hands around the back of Ramsay’s head, pulled out a few inches and rammed back into his throat, enjoying the spluttering, gagging sound that escaped him as his cock hit the uvula. He moaned to the sound of Ramsay choking on his cock, relishing his struggle for a few moments before he started to move his hips back and forth in an increasingly fast and furious rhythm, fucking his captive savagely in the mouth. Ramsay was choking violently now, heaving and gargling as he inched closer and closer to suffocation. Euron felt something wet and warm slide along the length of his cock before a small burst of vomit hit his intimates, and he pulled out, letting the still semi-conscious Ramsay throw up whatever water was left in his stomach; the thin, clear vomit running down the side of his cheeks and into his hair.

Coughing and choking, Ramsay hang with eyes fluttering, a mixture of upchuck and tears running down his face. Euron grabbed a handful of Ramsay’s hair and got ready to force feed him his prick once again, when he heard a weak, almost inaudible plea coming from his upside-down hanging victim: “…no _*cough*_ …please…no…” The King chuckled, then grabbed his member covered in vomit and slapped it against Ramsay’s cheek once, extracting a strained _umph!_ from his victim. With his other hand, he massaged Ramsay’s scalp, running his fingers through the greasy, tussled hair at the back of his head. “Sorry, little Lord. Your warm mouth seems to fit around my cock so perfectly, and I think it belongs in there for good”. With those words, he tightened his grip in Ramsay's hair.

A sound of half protest, half surprise escaped Ramsay, as the prick pressed past his lips and slit down his throat. Seconds later it changed into muffled squeals interrupted by coughs and gagging as Euron started to fuck his mouth savagely, thrusting into his face till Ramsay was sure he was about to choke on the cock. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t bite him either and his face was turning a dangerous red from the strain and lack of oxygen. Tears flowed from his cheeks like rivers and he gasped for the air, which only seemed to make it worse as it created more room for Euron to force himself into. He felt death inch closer with each thrust of his rapist's hips. Ramsay wanted to cry out in pain, but couldn’t even do that. Hot, salty tears stained his cheek as he begged the gods to strike him down.

At last, Euron felt ready to shoot off his load. The combination of friction and warm wetness was making him lightheaded, and after two more savage thrusts he shoved the full length of his hardness down Ramsay’s throat and felt his balls retracting and empty themselves, sending a gush of seed through his throbbing cock. After having ejaculated down his throat, Euron held Ramsay in place for a few more moments until he felt the body had started to jitter, before he pulled away and let Ramsay throw up all over himself once again; the pearly white semen dripping from the corners of his mouth and down his cheek. Ramsay spit and coughed repeatedly for more than a minute, crying pitifully in between the violent hurls.

A hand slapped his face hard. Ramsay opened his eyes and let out a small whimper as he once again looked up into the face of his tormentor, Greyjoy’s eyes now filled with the malevolent pleasure he had gained from his suffering, his soul-shattering humiliation. The large man crouched so that he could be face-to-face with Ramsay. “That was really quite pleasurable - thank you for that” his grin made Ramsay’s whole body quiver. Even though he already knew the answer, the question slipped from his lips nontheless. “Why….why…” he choked again as the awful salty fishy tinge of Greyjoy’s fluids rose in his throat “...are you doing this to me?” he whispered, trying to understand, trying to make sense of what was happening to him, why this fiend had chosen him to the the object of his perversion. Hearing his words, the expression on Euron’s face changed into one of wonderment “Why Ramsay…what a silly little question coming from you.” The King petted his cheek “ _because I can_ ”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends. I ain't dead.  
> Tons of apologies for the grossness of this chapter, but I figured if you made it through Ramsay being raped in front of deceased, brain-spilling Roose, you would probably also be able to handle a little vomit and some one-wayed 69 fellatio. 
> 
> "The Bear and the Maiden Fair"- bit is taken from G.R.R.M along with every character appearing in this story obviously (except Maester Gaevor, Grey Lorren, Hobbs & Owen who are original characters).


	20. Splash!

_Splash!_

The icy-cold water hit Ramsay like a hard slap, snatching his breath away. Startled, he gasped, then spluttered a half cough, half choke as it trickled down his throat and hit his uvula. _What th…_ Before he could finish his thought, another gush of water hit him full in the face, causing his body to jerk and a retching gasp burst from his throat. Driven more by instinct than a will to survive he tried to lift his hands to his face to shield it, but found that he could not; that something was holding his arms suspended, stretched out in a V shape above his head, denying him movement.

Then, as sudden as the the flow of water had begun, it stopped.

He felt dizzy, slightly sick. Slowly he opened his eyes and lifted his head groggily, trying to regain his bearings in a room that felt like it had been caught up in a whirlwind. Despite his vertigo, it took him but a moment to realise he was back on the table again, splayed out horizontally on top of the Bolton cross from where the Kraken had suspended him earlier that evening. After a few more seconds of utter confusion, his light-headedness faded and his surroundings began to take form, as blood started to flow back into his body from his brain where it had rushed to when he had been hanged upside down. Something moved to his right, something large and human-sized. He flinched as the figure stepped into his field of vision, then bent over him in order to inspect him up close.

“Hellooo” Euron was tapping his cheek with one hand, poking his eyelid with a finger. A salty taste stung his tongue, awakening in him the memory of the abuse he had suffered moments before when his tormentor had forced his cock down his throat. Disgusted, he turned his head to the side and spat hard, then retched and spat again, but still the taste persisted, so he spat and gagged again and again until his mouth had gone dry, trying desperately to rid himself of not only the horrid flavour of his enemy’s seed, but of the very memory of its foul origin.

“Leave me be” he managed to croak through his swollen throat as Euron grabbed a fistful of his hair, forcing Ramsay’s face towards his own, then leaned in so close their noses nearly touched. “Tell me truly, boy… Did you enjoy the taste of my big cock?" Even though Ramsay’s vision was blurred and unfocused from dizziness, he could still make out the smug look on the King’s face. "There is plenty more where that came from, if you have the appetite for another serving”. Euron snickered evilly and let a finger trail down along Ramsay’s neck, feeling the smoothness of his shaved skin. “You do look a bit famished…”

His words were cut short as a mist of saliva hit him full in the face, causing him to scrunch his eyes closed. “Before I die, you will feel the sharpness of my blade, Squid” Ramsay hissed weakly into Euron’s grimacing face. The words had leaped from his lips before he could restrain them, but now that they were spoken out loud he found he had no regrets “and I will take my time - that I can promise you”

Slowly the King opened his eyes again. Lifting a hand to his face he wiped off the salvia on his dublet’s sleeve. For a brief moment, a look of slight puzzlement settled over his face, only to be replaced by an expression reminiscent that of an angry thundercloud. With rage-filled eyes burning holes through his prisoner, Euron drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled again. His fingers closed tight around Ramsay’s throat, then started to squeeze his windpipe shut; not enough to throttle him, but enough for Ramsay to start gasping for air and squirm weakly underneath his grip.

“So the Bolton Beast finally bares his teeth” Euron’s voice had dropped to a low, throaty growl, his blue eyes stormy as they examined Ramsay from head to toe, “but it is all a guise, isn’t it? Like a venom less adder showing its fangs, you have no bite that matters anymore, boy; you should have realized that by now” Incapable of uttering anything but a guttural sound in response, Ramsay thrashed his head around hoping the strong fingers around his neck would tighten their grip further, and crush the life out of him for good. _Harder, you bastard. Harder._ He glared his defiance at Euron, his lips curled in a sneer. _Come ‘on... Do it!_

The silence hung for a moment as both men stared each other down before Ramsay stuck his chin up and broke it off; his eyes fluttering closed as his mind slowly began drifting towards unconsciousness. Seconds later he let out an involuntary gasp as Euron let go of his throat and settled his hand on top of his head, stroking his hair. “Stop pretending you have any pride left; I’m sure I fucked that out of you a long time ago, and If not - I soon will” the King’s voice had turned teasing, but his eyes shot fire still “That insolent tongue of yours will get you nowhere but down on your knees”.

With his face flushed from exertion and lungs heaving for air, Ramsay locked eyes with Euron once again. “You are a mad cunt, Greyjoy; not worthy of drinking my piss, let alone laying claim to any land outside those shit-stained rocks you call home” he chuckled weakly, his eyes glinting manically “and Sansa will never marry you, you fool! The Starks will laugh in your face, then put you down like a rapid d…”. His words were interrupted as a coughing fit overcame him, making him feel as if his lungs had been covered in mud. “…d-dog” Stubbornly he forced the last word out through his tightened throat.

The King let out a loud snort. “Your wit is wasting away”, he mocked, “forgive me, Lord Bolton, why I take no heed of words spoken by a man who moments ago was choking on my prick”. His hand left Ramsay’s hair and settled on his belt instead. Rattling the buckle a few times implying he was about to pull his cock out again, Euron leaned in close and dropped his voice to almost a whisper. “Perhaps I should put your mouth to better use than babbling insults at me”

Upon hearing his tormentor’s threat, a new flash of anger coursed through Ramsay’s veins. With what felt to himself like inhuman effort, he lifted his head from the cross, causing Euron to withdraw his face and back up a step so as to avoid butting heads with his captive or risk getting another dose of spittle spewed at him. “Go ahead” Ramsay hissed “what you put in my mouth, I will tear from your body. Why should I play this vile game of yours any longer? You have taken everything from me already!”

The desperation in his own voice sounded strange to his ears. How had it come to this? he wondered. How had he allowed himself to make such a fatal mistake as to fall into his enemy's clutch in the first place? To be corrupted by him? Less than a month ago he had been the Lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North and commander of thousands of men obeying his every whim without question or hesitation, sleeping each night next to a different wench of his choosing, and now here he was a few weeks later -but a shadow of his former self; a nervous wreck, raging at his tormentor one second, fearing his wrath the next.

He looked at Euron, who was staring back at him thoughtfully. Apparently, his words had given him pause. There was a long, frowning silence, before the King's grave expression was replaced by a venomous smile. “Sweet boy” he sighed deeply, then tilted his head upwards and sniffed the air “you reek. What will Lady Sansa not think of me, if I return you to her smelling like a hog’s arse? It seems that a thorough cleanse is what you need - of body and mind” he paused, "tomorrow, perhaps?" With those words, Euron turned on his heel and walked towards the door. As his fingers closed around the door's grip he turned to face Ramsay one last time; his unpleasant smile turning into a stern looking grimace as he did. "You should brace yourself for what's coming, Lord Bolton. You probably won't like it"

***

Ramsay lay listening to the sound of Euron’s footsteps disappearing up the stairs, followed by the door to the outside coming open. Someone spoke briefly in a muffled voice and was answered by another, before the door closed again and a new set of footsteps, heavier and more sluggish than the King’s, descended down the staircase towards him. Seconds later the bald guard, Hobbs, appeared in the doorway; a malignant smile curling his meaty lips as his eyes fell on Ramsay’s soaked form splayed out on the cross before him.

“The captain wore you out, eh?” he grinned as he walked up to Ramsay, but the grin was lopsided, more like a sneering grimace. “Do not worry, bastard. Compared to him I will threat you with kindness, if you hold your tongue and give me no grief. I shall free you from your bonds, but first you swallow this without struggle”. He held out his hand. In his palm was something that looked like a piece of shriveled up parchment, brownish in color and around the size of a gold coin.

Before Ramsay had a chance to protest, the Ironborn had grabbed him around the jaw and forced it open. “Stay still!” Hobbs sneered as Ramsay began squirming in his clutch. Without further ceremony, he crammed the dried lump into his mouth, then proceeded to clamp a hand down over his face denying him air. A bitter taste of mould mixed with fungi overwhelmed Ramsay's tongue. He tried to spit the lump out again, but couldn’t; Hobbs’ hold on him was too strong, and soon he had no other choice but to swallow the awful substance.

“What did you just feed me!?” he demanded to know when Hobbs finally loosened his grip on his jaw. Obviously it wasn’t poison. It couldn’t be; Greyjoy wouldn’t dare kill him at this point, or… _or would he?_ He had already been promised to the Starks, and if they wanted him dead by someone else’s hand, his head would be on a pike by now, decorating the Dreadfort’s walls.  _But…_  what if the poison was slow acting? What if Euron had decided that Ramsay knew too much, and he didn’t want to risk his inclinations becoming known to his new allies? Was it not safer to simply let Ramsay turn up dead in his cell  _after_ he had been handed over to Jon Snow, than to risk him confessing to Euron’s secret proclivities?

As much as he longed for death, Ramsay still hoped that his would be a painless one; from what he knew about poisons though, none of the slow ones granted that. It was supposedly quite painful dying like that, not that he had ever witnessed it - poisoning someone wasn’t really a preference of his – but he had heard the tales of skin turning green, eyes bulging out of sockets and blood oozing from every orifice enough times to know that it was not a preferable end.

Hobbs chuckled, ignoring his question, then began loosening the restraints around Ramsay’s wrist and ankles by tugging hard on the leather straps, causing them to gnaw painfully into his sore flesh. “Answer me, you simpleminded creature” Ramsay hissed into the guard’s broad face. “ANSWER ME!!!”

Pain hit him like an explosion as Hobbs drove his fist down into his balls, leaving him gasping for air. Ramsay’s mouth flew open and an otherworldly shriek filled the room. “Quit your yapping” The guard loosened the last leather strap with a fast, violent pull “I don’t want to hear another word slithering from that forked tongue of yours” Grabbing Ramsay by one bruised wrist, Hobbs pulled him off the table and onto his feet. "Move it!" He sneered and shoved Ramsay roughly toward the door.

They stepped into the open courtyard, scantily illuminated by a half-moon that stood high amongst the dark clouds. The northern wind had picked up, causing the well-bucket to squeak as it swung lazily back and forth on its hinges. With his jailer right at his heels, Ramsay limped across the yard towards the dungeon as fast as his bruised balls allowed. About half way to their destination, his ankle suddenly gave way, causing him to come to a full stop. “Forward, bastard” Hobbs shoved Ramsay in the back with such force it made his teeth rattle. Off balance, he stumbled forward until he lost his footing and fell to his knees, expelling an involuntary grunt of pain as they hit the frozen ground hard.

“Get up!” the guard ordered, and when Ramsay didn’t move he placed a foot on his backside and shoved him forward causing him to fall flat on his stomach. “Did you not hear me? I said: GET UP!”. Shaking with supressed anger, Ramsay slowly got up on his hands and knees. In an explosive fit of rage and using all the strength he could possibly muster, he lunged at the man aiming to drive his fist into his gut.

The attack failed as Hobbs swiftly, and with an elegance unlike such a seemingly graceless brute, took a step to the side out of reach of Ramsay’s swing, then retaliated by hitting Ramsay backhand across the face, sending him falling to the ground once again. Ramsay cried out in pain as Hobs kicked him hard in the side. “Try that one more time and I’m gonna rip your lungs out through your arse”. Another kick found the small of his back. “Do you understand, bastard?” With his face twisted up into a painful looking grimace, Ramsay nodded his head reluctantly. "Ye-yes" he stuttered, and shot the man a vengeful glare. Grabbing his prisoner by the scruff of the neck, Hobbs dragged him to his feet again, then pushed him forward in the direction of the dungeon.

Upon his arrival in the cell, fresh hay had been scattered across the floor and the waste-bucket had been emptied. Ramsay hardly made it beyond the threshold before his weak legs gave in and he collapsed onto the ground, gritting his teeth in pain and cupping himself. Closing the cell's door behind him, Hobbs muttered something unintelligible - most likely an insult of some kind, but Ramsay no longer cared - before disappearing from sight, positioning himself somewhere in the shadows.

A foul taste reminding him of mussels gone bad crept up his throat. With his stomach churning and lips curled in disgust, he glanced around the cell. His eyes fell on the bucket standing near the bars farthest to his left. _Water._ The thought of it trickling down his throat left him queasy, but it was still better than having Greyjoy's taste lingering in his mouth all night. Carefully he tried to stand, but the pain shooting through his balls prevented it, and forced him to sit back down in the hay. Biting his lower lip, trying to ignore the pain and shame he felt from his pathetic condition, he crawled on all fours over to the bucket and glanced over its side, finding it empty.

Ramsay, drained of his voice and his strength, crumpled to the ground. “Guard…” he rasped weakly, then listened for a response. Nothing. He tried again, this time a little louder “Guard?...” A few seconds went by. Again, nothing. Then, a loud groan filled the dungeon, followed by the shuffling of feet as Hobbs got up and walked towards him. Coming to a halt in front of Ramsay, the large man sighed deeply. “WHAT?” he asked in annoyance and rolled his eyes. “More water” Ramsay croaked and pushed the bucket in his direction. Hobbs folded his arms across his chest. “Was that an order? Eh, bastard?" His face turned smug as he looked him up and down. "It looks to me like you had enough of that already"

Doing his best to avoid the guard's amused stare, Ramsay lowered his gaze to the ground and bit his lower lip fiercely. “Can I get some more water…” It was evident that to get what he wanted, he had no other choice but to swallow his pride “…please?” The pathetic plea left his lips in a hoarse whisper. “You want…water?” the guard repeated, and Ramsay could hear the smile in his voice. No doubt, Hobbs was enjoying himself immensely on his behalf, but what was there to do about it? He needed the water to wash away the unbearable shame he felt, and if procuring it involved humoring a feeble-minded beast who hated his guts, so be it. “Please” Ramsay said once more, and felt his face flush. For a moment Hobbs remained standing in front of him, arms crossed and with that smug look on his face, before he turned around and disappeared back into the shadows. A sound of water stirring filled the dungeon. Moments later, Hobbs appeared again, this time with a deep ladle in his hand.

Holding the ladle between the bars in front of him with one hand, the guard motioned towards Ramsay with the other. “Come get it then”. A feeling of hot shame flamed to Ramsay’s cheeks as he crawled on his hands and knees towards it. Coming to a halt in front of the man he reached for the ladle, but the guard pulled his hand behind the bars, leaving it just beyond Ramsay’s reach. “One more time. Let me hear you say it” Hobbs said and smiled wide, revealing a set of stained teeth.

Ramsay swallowed hard. ” _Please_ …may I have some water?” Hobbs’ beady eyes stared down at him, his lips curled in a smile that expressed malignant contempt as well as amusement. ”Fine” the guard finally said, and held the ladle out towards him one more time. Ramsay reached for it; his fingers almost touching the handle, when Hobbs pulled it back behind the bars and out of his reach yet again. 

A loud, noisy snuffle echoed through the dungeon, as Hobbs hawked up a large glob of phlegm and spat it into the ladle, polluting the otherwise fresh, clear water. Stirring the snot around with a finger, he gestured towards Ramsay. ”Hmm?” he asked and smiled even wider at the look of disgust and disappointment that now coated Ramsay’s features. ”Suit yourself” Hobbs emptied the ladle on the floor, then banged it against the bars with great force, causing Ramsay to jump back in alarm. ”Don’t interrupt me again, or I’ll piss down you throat and make you swallow it” Pointing the dipper at Ramsay as if it were a sword he was about to skewer him with, he then added “and don’t try to fuckin´ hang yourself either. Not on my bloody watch!”. Sending Ramsay one last dark glare promising slow, painful death, Hobbs turned from the bars and shuffled away.

Ramsay crawled into the corner and huddled there, gritting his teeth in silent fury. He felt exhausted and wanted to sleep, but Hobbs provocation had left his heart hammering away in his chest like the drums of war causing him to feel wide awake. After a few minutes, the room started to spin and his vision began to blur, so he laid down in the hay and hoped for it to pass. Perhaps it was poison Hobbs had feed him after all. If that was the case, it sure didn’t feel like anything he imagined it to be. There was no pain except in his balls, and other than the nausea he had felt ever since the abuse had taken place, there was no indication that he had fallen ill either. Arranging himself in a fetal position, drawing his knees up to his chest, Ramsay closed his eyes and waited for whatever would take him first whether it be sleep or death.

***

Something moved in the darkness. Ramsay perked his ears and listened as the sound of shuffling feet filled the air. Assuming it was Hobbs or one of the other guards back to pester him some more, he didn’t bother to look up. Closer. Closer the footsteps came. Then they stopped.

“M-Master?” A man’s trembling voice called out. Ramsay got up on one elbow and looked out through the bars. A figure cowered outside the cell, its face cloaked by the shadows. “Master…are you hurt?” The man asked, a faint quiver in his voice evidence of his ragged nerves. _No…it couldn’t be._ “Who’s there?” Ramsay called out, his voice cracking. Hesitantly the stranger moved from the shadows and into the light, and Ramsay saw his face, still oddly handsome though dirty and worn out; with sharply marked cheekbones and delicately cut thin lips. The hair on top of his head was an unruly bird's nest made from tousled, brown locks, and the putrid smell emanating from his dirty, shredded garments was like old sweat and fear had been mixed with piss and stale dogshit.

Ramsay swallowed and blinked his eyes in disbelief. It was Reek.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been suffering badly from writer's block (or laziness) these past few months, and this chapter is a result of that. I hope that by posting something I might snap out of it.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic published and its going to be a long one. Personally, I like a looong build-up so I hope not to loose you on the way. I began writing this story after being inspired by "Salt Wife" by beautysupreme which had a Ramsay/Euron pairing, and "A Need to Suffer" by spankingfemme. Those are both great fics and if you haven´t read them yet...get to it I say. I am not a native english speaker so some grammar fuck-ups, weird wording, wrongly placed synonyms and stuff like that might occur a lot. Please feel free to comment on it (or anything else) as I do hope to get better. I´ve taken certain creative liberties with this story, i.e. hidden tunnels and also some of the timeframe and geography of the GOT universe might be a bit off.


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